Handmade, to last;

Every step returns. A staircase rises without arrival and descends without end. Each step promises progress, yet leads us back to where we began.

Open and hollow, its structure lets light pass through the spaces where matter falls away. Movement is held inside stillness; form surrounds absence. There is no first threshold and no final landing, only the rhythm of ascent and descent.

Worn against the body, Infinite Void becomes a passage rather than a destination. The void is not simply emptiness. It is the space in which every direction remains possible.

The word before the wound. Before the blade moves, there is intention. Before intention becomes action, there is the word: a promise, a declaration, or a force held in reserve.

Rhema reinterprets the sword hilt, where the body meets the weapon and force can be directed or restrained. Removed from the blade, its architecture becomes jewellery worn close to the skin: protection without armour, presence without impact.

Each piece holds the suggestion of a weapon without completing one. It carries controlled potential, a declaration that has not yet become an act.

The molten chain is cast as one, its form in fire entwined, No single link may stand apart, nor break from what’s designed. Not built, but bound each curve a vow, each fusion fate’s decree, A structure shaped before its birth, a force we cannot see.

No master stands beyond the past, no kingdom forged alone, The weight of power, silent law, in secrecy is sown. What hand commands, what fate aligns, what force unseen decides? The Dominion speaks a whispered bond, where all as one abides.

The chilled steel of the Tower murmurs to the Flèur's bloom,

Whispering their secret exchange, in the dimness of my room,

Curating these verses, Conjuring this ballet of finesse,

Blending life's beauty with the end’s intricate caress.

In the echoing refrain of love and death's eternal song,

In verses' labyrinth, where meanings fade and throng.

In my delicate strokes, no room for compromise,

The Fleur, crimson and tender, in my gentle embrace,

has started to crumble in my hands, an ephemeral grace,

In each wilted petal's prose, secrets gently swirl,

As if death himself uttered, it was never your pearl.

But why the skeletal figure? Why the scythe? Why the robe? Skeletons are symbolic of death, representing the human body after it has decayed. The robe is thought to be reminiscent of the robes that religious figures of the time wore when conducting funerary services. The scythe is an apt image taken from agricultural practices of the time: harvesters used scythes to reap or harvest crops that were ready to be plucked from the earth…and, well, that’s kind of what happens when humans die: they are plucked from this earth.

A work of worldwide extent and unwonted power is foretold here. Great power and glory were imparted to the angel, and as he descended, the earth was lightened with his glory. The light that attended this angel penetrated everywhere, as he cried mightily, with a strong voice, “Babylon the great is fallen, is fallen, and is become the habitation of devils, and the hold of every foul spirit, and a cage of every unclean and hateful bird.”

The rose has long been a symbol of love, beauty, and affection. And each colour rose holds a different meaning. A red rose means ‘I love you’ and is a sign of romance; a white rose symbolizes innocence and purity, A red and white rose paired together has come to symbolize unity. The Romans viewed roses as a representation of death and rebirth, often planting them at the graves of loved ones. While many associate the black roses with death or mourning, they have a more positive meaning of rebirth and a new beginning.