3rd Degree
We were twelve,
gathered at Daksa Island,
in the Adriatic’s haunted breath.
The sea moaned like a choir of the forgotten,
as shadows clothed themselves in black robes.
In the silence, a blade gleamed—
a knife that whispered, truth is not free.
They placed it before me.
“If you betray the mysteries,” they said,
“this edge will taste your life.”
My thumb was cut—
blood welled like an oath from the bone.
I smeared it upon the red crystal,
and in an instant,
I vanished with them
into the underground night.
There, the air was heavy with ashes of forgotten stars.
Voices rose from the stone:
From this hour, you are ruled
by Pluto and Mercury.
They opened my throat to riddles,
my heart to parables,
and taught me to move the tides of energy
like breath stirring fire.
“You are not flesh,” they said.
“You are current,
you are gravity undone,
you are the pulse behind the pulse.”
The weight of their words pressed like iron.
“Great power is sorrow’s twin.
Responsibility will crown you like thorns.
We name you, child of the Sun,
the Father, and the Holy Spirit.
Go—bend the world in silence,
shape it through shadows.”
The cloth fell from my eyes—
and I stood, bewildered,
in the White House,
marble and light swallowing my breath.
Faces applauded,
faces I knew, faces I did not,
their hands striking like thunder.
“Welcome, young man,” they said.
And yet,
inside me, a knife still gleamed,
reminding me that every secret
is carved from sacrifice,
and every crown
is burdened by the blade.
Copyright © Chanda Katonga | Year Posted 2025
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