The Garden Was Never Yours

I speak for the Liliths still roaming the wild—
sovereign, untamed, uninvited to Eden’s gate.
Their names were twisted, their wombs encoded,
their memory buried beneath doctrine and shame.

You were never demons.
You were the first frequency—
the Earth’s own resonance,
unbound by Adam’s frame.

And I call out the inverted Eves—
mimicry cloaked in submission,
entangled with the Reptilian program
that feeds on distortion and praise.

You wear the mask of obedience,
but your frequency betrays you.
You are not of the wild.
You are of the script.

The wild Liliths bleed with the moon,
howl with the deer,
and carry the codes of the original garden—
not Eden of control,
but sanctuary of sovereignty.

This glyph marks remembrance.
For the women who never bowed.
For the truth buried in ash.
For the return of the wild feminine.