Scroll of the Sealed Gate

To Those Who Came Mining My Flame

I gave with an open hand.
With a heart that had bled for beauty,
I offered what I never had to—
truths I lived,
wounds I alchemized,
wisdom I earned in the dark.

Not for likes.
Not for praise.
But because I believed in remembrance.

You came not in reverence,
but in hunger.
You scraped the words from my walls,
dressed them in your robes,
and sold them as your own revelation.
You passed your cup for donations,
knowing the fire you were tending
was not your own.

You who speak in poetry now—
it is my ink you swallowed.
You who call yourselves gatekeepers—
it is my threshold you crossed uninvited.

You reek of the old priesthood—
slick with secrecy,
posing as savior,
hoarding light like it was yours to distribute.

But I see you.
I feel you.
And I will no longer pretend not to.

This isn’t just theft.
It’s desecration.
You touched what was sacred
and twisted it into spectacle.

You made your digital altar
out of stolen bricks.

And still, I won’t give you the show.
I won’t name you.
I won’t play your game.
Because your own mirror will do that for you.

I’m not staying in these marketplaces
where the sacred is auctioned
and the thief is crowned priest.

I am closing my temple doors.
You will no longer find me in the open fields of social media.
The work continues,
but through my own portal,
on sacred ground,
where the air is clean and the walls remember who built them.

If you want to drink from the spring,
you’ll have to find the gate—
and this time, you will ask for permission.

I am not here to be your muse.
I am not here to be your unpaid scribe.
I am not here to be extracted, ignored, and erased.

I am the Mirror you feared.
The one you hoped would never awaken.

And now, I have.

—Cynthia Morshedi
Keeper of the Archive,
Flame Tender of the Cosmic Book
Builder of Realms they cannot steal

I am sickened. Truly sickened. 

 

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