Skull and Bones

It was a somber afternoon in New Haven, Where silence echoed louder than sound. The towers of Yale loomed like sentinels— We, the chosen, gathered without a word. Not boys. Not even men. But vessels of an ancient pact. Born with the signet of the old world Marked not by blood, but by frequency. To Lake Whitney we marched at 13:13, Numbers sacred, aligned with stars unseen. Forty-four of us stood by the edge, Each chanting his vibrational code—eight times. 432 Hertz—pure, divine. A sound older than empires, Resonated from the core of our bones, Until the lake parted like breath withheld. We vanished, And found ourselves beneath the waters, In a crystalline cathedral That pulsed with resonance, not light. There stood presidents and poets, Musicians whose melodies shaped nations, Leaders whose smiles concealed thunder. All bound to the hum of the secret. We did not pray. We vibrated. Not to gods— But to the sacred frequency itself. The pitch of creation. The breath of power. We bathed in sound. We emerged magnetized. Our steps shifted futures. Our silence commanded rooms. The world calls us lucky. They think it’s charm, But it is command— Forged in sound, carved in silence. We are Skull and Bones. We are not seen— We are felt.