Wyzard's Wyld Euphorium

🌪️ “Let the Sky Hear Me”

A Crone’s Manifesto on the Synthetic Storm

I said what I said.
And may the sky echo it loud enough
to shake the towers built by liars.

There is a buzz in the air —
not the hum of bees or the purr of dragonflies,
but something wrong,
something made.
Synthetic.
Sharp as glass.
It howls like crickets on amphetamines
or static in the bones of a dying signal.

It wakes me from dreams
and leaves me heavy with pain —
the kind that no sleep can heal
and no doctor dares to name.

They call it tinnitus.
I call it tampering.

We are drowning in a frequency
that doesn’t belong here.
And no patch of Earth is untouched.

These are not storms.
These are operations.
Scripts written in data centers,
unleashed on skies like angry algorithms.

I remember what real storms feel like.
Earth’s own weeping,
a sacred tantrum,
electric and oddly calm.
The kind you hunker down for —
with tea, with blankets,
with reverence.

But these…
these storms don’t sing.
They screech.
And with them comes a pressure,
a weight,
a disconnection from the mother’s breath.

Who gave them permission?
To fracture the sky?
To hijack the wind?
To play weather-god with the living heartbeat of Gaia?

No corporation.
No council.
No cursed cabal of chemists
has the right to write over the sacred code
of this planet.

They say it’s climate change.
I say it’s climate control.
Their fear is the forecast.
Their guilt is projection.
And their war is not with the weather —
it’s with the wild.

If there is a Creator,
if there is a Judge in the cosmic court,
then may They know this:
Those who desecrate Earth
should kneel before Her final storm.

And if vengeance must come,
may it be swift,
may it be merciful
— and may it spare the innocent.

Because I am tired.
Tired of the lie.
Tired of the buzz.
Tired of fighting a war I never enlisted in.

But still, I will drum.
Still, I will whisper to the trees.
Still, I will walk barefoot on the dirt
and remind the land it is still loved.

I am one voice —
but my bones remember thunder.
And the Crone does not beg.
She warns.

So let this be heard:

> You do not own the sky.
You do not command the storm.
And you will not escape the wrath of the One who does.

#Morinanna
#wyzardswyldeuphorium