The Zodiac Wheel
In Atlantis,
we were not star-gazers—
we were time engineers.
The constellations were gates,
breathing frequencies
into the bones of man.
The stars are not above us,
I whispered to my students,
they are the memories within us.
To us,
the zodiac was not prediction,
but remembrance—
a wheel of origins
spinning in our veins.
Our Lemurian brothers
did not chart the heavens—
they felt them,
as sacred tones in the waters,
as songs trembling
in the heart’s tide.
We, the Atlanteans,
cut the skies with mind,
sharpened by precision,
hungry to master
what should only be served.
Aries—fire of the first incarnation.
Scorpio—the keeper of endings,
death and return.
Virgo—the servant
of divine design.
Aquarius—blueprint
of the cosmic mind.
But knowledge turned sword.
The wheel we built for healing
was stolen by the elites,
its power bent,
its harmony undone.
And so Atlantis fell,
and Lemuria drowned,
and the zodiac we once lived by
was scattered—
like broken stars
across the sea of forgetting.
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