Rise

The old world is crumbling. Not because of war, not because of politics, but because its foundations were built on illusion. Control, greed, and manipulation only survive as long as people believe in them.

At first, this unraveling can feel terrifying. The ego clings to what is familiar, even when it is harmful. It tells us that what we know—what is comfortable—is safer than what is possible.

But what happens when the illusion is shattered?

What happens when people remember their power?

This isn’t rebellion. This isn’t destruction for the sake of destruction. This is evolution.

The unraveling has begun. The new world is rising, and it is built on frequency.

Hopefully this poem resonates with you all:

Rise

It cannot be stopped. We cannot be stopped.

Not by those who built their kingdoms on shifting sand,

not by those who forged their crowns from borrowed time.

They scream into the void,

but the void does not answer.

The old world is starving,

hollowed by its own greed.

The walls they built to contain us crack like brittle bone,

porous from the poison in their souls,

and the hands that once held the chains now tremble in fear.

They rule nothing now but the ruins of a dying lie.

We are the tide that does not retreat.

The storm that does not beg permission.

The fire that does not kneel.

We are the architects of the new world,

and they do not exist within it.

They spent lifetimes feeding the lie—

that we were small, that we were powerless,

that we must kneel before their golden thrones.

But the lie has unraveled,

thread by thread,

and now it is they who kneel,

slaves to the insatiable hunger of their avarice.

We were never just pieces on their board.

We were never just players in their game.

We were the ones who set the board in motion.

And now it turns to ash so something greater may rise—

born not of a need to control, but of a desire for truth,

not of power or domination, but of unity and love.

They are unraveling because they have been unplugged.

The source no longer feeds them,

their consciousness no longer serves them.

The strings they pulled have frayed and snapped,

and their hands grasp at ghosts,

ghosts who see, ghosts who no longer live in fear.

We do not need their permission.

We do not need their rule.

We do not need their crumbling foundations.

We are the story, the voice, the hands that shape the dawn.

We are the ones who remember.

And nothing can stop what has already begun.

Anthony Halligan

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