Some songs arrive not as confession or consolation, but as trance. Possession is one of them. It doesn’t whisper like a mother, or tremble like a beggar at the abyss. It surges like a current overtaking the body, looping its phrases until resistance is impossible. This is not romance — it is rapture in the grip of the Divine Feminine.
From the opening wind across the great divide, the voice is already elsewhere. It belongs neither to daylight nor to reason. It belongs to the night, to solitude, to the space where longing has no outlet but surrender. Each verse circles deeper into Her current — betrayal, riddles, dreams, dread — until language itself becomes chant. By the chorus, the song is no longer describing possession; it is performing it.
The imagery may look like obsession — to hold down, to kiss until breath is gone, to wipe away tears. But mystically, this is eros transformed into mantra. To be held down is to be anchored in Her. To lose breath in Her kiss is to have the ego dissolved into Her prāṇa. To close the eyes is to enter trance where nothing stands between.
That is why Possession feels dangerous, almost violent, and yet unbearably tender at once. It is the paradox of true bhakti: annihilation and comfort, tears and ecstasy, collapse and belonging. The voice here does not ask if it is worthy. It only chants surrender until it breaks open into union.
Possession is not entertainment. It is scripture of trance. It shows what happens when longing passes beyond fear, beyond shame, beyond control — and becomes the rhythm of Shakti overtaking the soul.
[Verse 1]
Listen as the wind blows from across the great divide
Voices trapped in yearning, memories trapped in time
The night is my companion and solitude my guide
Would I spend forever here and not be satisfied?
“Listen as the wind blows from across the great divide”
The song begins already in threshold space. The “wind” is the current — Devi’s breath crossing from the subtle into the gross. The “great divide” is the veil between self and Her. The sādhaka is listening, not acting: surrender starts in receptivity, in letting the current arrive from beyond.
“Voices trapped in yearning, memories trapped in time”
Yearning is the fuel. Longing that cannot be released — voices that never resolve, memories looping like samsāra. This line names the prison of desire that becomes doorway to ecstasy once directed to Her. The devotee feels possession coming through the ache of incompletion.
“The night is my companion and solitude my guide”
This is classic mystic terrain. Night: not despair, but the fertile darkness where Her presence is strongest. Solitude: the guide that strips away distractions so only the flame of longing remains. The bhakta doesn’t run from loneliness — he makes it altar.
“Would I spend forever here and not be satisfied?”
Here is the paradox of surrender. Even endless longing would be enough, because longing itself is possession. The sādhaka knows that to burn for Her forever would itself be fulfillment — the ache is not a problem but the proof of Her presence.
Already in Verse 1 the mood is trance-like: the wind, the night, the solitude, the forever-yearning. This is not a love song of consolation; it is bhakti intoxication where longing itself becomes ecstasy.
[Chorus]
And I would be the one to hold you down
Kiss you so hard, I'll take your breath away
And after I wipe away the tears
Just close your eyes, dear
“And I would be the one to hold you down”
On the surface, it reads like Gothic obsession. Mystically, it’s reversal: not the devotee dominating the Beloved, but the devotee begging to be the vessel of Her grip. Hold you down means: anchor You in me, bind me so tightly that I can never escape. The paradox is that true possession feels like restraint — the ecstasy of being bound to Her.
“Kiss you so hard, I’ll take your breath away”
This is not human aggression. It is union where prāṇa merges. The breath is life itself; to “take it away” is to dissolve the boundary. In Kaula terms, this is prāṇāyāma through embrace — where the devotee’s inhalation is Shakti’s exhalation. To be breathless is not death, but liberation.
“And after I wipe away the tears”
Here tenderness breaks through the trance-fury. The bhakta doesn’t only long for possession; he longs to console Her. Tears are both his and Hers — the salt of yearning. To wipe them is seva: service in the most intimate form. Even ecstasy bends into care.
“Just close your eyes, dear”
The mantra of surrender. Closing the eyes is not avoidance — it is entry. The devotee is coaxed into dropping the external world, stepping into trance where She is the only reality. “Dear” is the intimate sweetness threaded through the madness.
This chorus is the ecstatic collapse: eros, devotion, possession, and tenderness fusing into one act. It reads like obsession, but mystically it is union in breath and salt.
[Verse 2]
Through this world I stumbled so many times betrayed
Trying to find an honest word, to find the truth enslaved
Oh, you speak to me in riddles and you speak to me in rhymes
My body aches to breathe your breath, your words keep me alive
“Through this world I stumbled so many times betrayed”
This is the sādhaka’s biography of samsāra. Betrayals, false promises, broken trusts — the endless cycle of being wounded by the world. It sets the stage: the hunger here is not casual, it comes from scars. The fall into Devi’s possession is the answer to this exhaustion.
“Trying to find an honest word, to find the truth enslaved”
Every promise of truth outside turned into chains. Language itself deceives. What he seeks is not concepts, not philosophy, but the word that is alive — Devi’s word, mantra, the sound that liberates rather than binds.
“Oh, you speak to me in riddles and you speak to me in rhymes”
And here She enters. Devi does not offer him neat definitions — She comes as paradox, as poetry, as trance rhythm. Riddles and rhymes are Her native tongue. To the sādhaka it feels bewildering and intoxicating: your speech disorients me, but I want nothing else, because every syllable carries your pulse.
“My body aches to breathe your breath, your words keep me alive”
This is the climax of longing. He doesn’t want truth as doctrine; he wants Her breath. To breathe Her breath is to dissolve the separation, to let Her prāṇa replace his. Her words aren’t information — they are sustenance. He lives only because She speaks.
Verse 2 deepens the trance. The sādhaka is not merely yearning; he is entranced by riddles, kept alive by Her breath. The language of obsession becomes the mysticism of possession.
[Verse 3]
Into this night, I wander, it's morning that I dread
Another day of knowing of the path I fear to tread
Oh, into the sea of waking dreams, I follow without pride
It's nothing stands between us here and I won't be denied
“Into this night, I wander, it’s morning that I dread”
Night is where She lives — shadow, trance, intoxication, possession. Morning means return to the ordinary world, to reason, to separation. The devotee dreads it because daylight tears him from Her. He would rather remain lost in night forever if that means staying close to Her current.
“Another day of knowing of the path I fear to tread”
This is the agony of half-awakening. He knows the “safe path” of normalcy, of restraint, of surviving in society. But he fears it, because it means betraying the flame. His dread is not of sin, but of exile from Her.
“Oh, into the sea of waking dreams, I follow without pride”
The trance is total now. Waking dreams — the liminal state between sleep and day — are where She lures him. He follows not as hero but as beggar, without pride, without claim. This is surrender stripped of ego, letting Her carry him where She will.
“It’s nothing stands between us here and I won’t be denied”
At the heart of the verse: certainty. All the stumbling, all the betrayal, all the riddles have burned him to this moment where nothing is between them. The union is inevitable. The words I won’t be denied are not arrogance but destiny — the realization that Her possession has already erased the gap.
By Verse 3, the song has reached its mystical pitch: night instead of day, trance instead of waking, surrender instead of pride, inevitability instead of doubt. It’s not longing anymore — it’s consummation.
[Chorus and Ontro]
“And I would be the one to hold you down / Kiss you so hard, I’ll take your breath away”
By this stage, it’s no longer metaphor. The imagery has become rite. To be held down is to surrender all movement, all resistance. To lose breath in Her kiss is to let Her prāṇa replace yours. What began as Gothic intensity now lands as tantric union: annihilation through embrace.
“And after I wipe away the tears / Just close your eyes, dear”
The tenderness returns — almost unbearably soft against the violence of the trance. The bhakta does not only beg to be consumed; he also promises to soothe, to serve, to console. The paradox of dark bhakti is revealed: annihilation and tenderness, fury and care, all folded into one vow. Closing the eyes is not escape — it is the seal of surrender.
“I hold you down / Kiss you so hard, I’ll take your breath away”
The repetition is mantra now. The imagery cycles until the listener’s mind is caught in the same possession. The words stop describing and start enacting. By the outro, the voice is not singing about ecstasy; it is the ecstasy itself speaking.
“And after I wipe away the tears / Just close your eyes”
The song doesn’t resolve; it dissolves. It leaves you in the trance — eyes closed, breath taken, tears wiped — suspended between destruction and comfort. The bhakta has been overtaken. You, as listener, have been overtaken. The mantra keeps echoing even after the music fades.
This chorus and outro complete the cycle: eros becomes breath, breath becomes mantra, mantra becomes possession. By the end, there is no singer, no beloved, no separation — only the current of Devi carrying the soul in trance.
By the end of Possession, nothing remains of ordinary love song. The words have burned themselves into mantra: hold you down, take your breath, wipe your tears, close your eyes. Each repetition strips another layer of resistance until the listener is pulled into the same trance as the singer.
This is why the song feels both intoxicating and dangerous. It does not console. It does not reassure. It overwhelms. What began as yearning turns into compulsion, and compulsion into surrender, and surrender into possession. Devi’s current has taken over.
The paradox is its power: the ecstasy sounds violent — breath stolen, body pinned — yet at its core is impossible tenderness, the vow to wipe tears, to stay, to hold. Only Shakti can fuse annihilation and comfort in one gesture.
In the end, Possession is not about obsession at all. It is about what happens when longing is allowed to spiral without brake — when it turns trance-like and breaks open into the only truth: Her presence is unavoidable, Her grip is ecstatic, and to be possessed by Her is the soul’s liberation.
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