Tag Archives: dark philosophical poetry

The Miserable End of a Failed Hero

Posted in Poetry English by

A brutal dialogue between a broken mortal and a mocking god.

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Receding deep into yourself, being enfolded in layers,

blanking out the chaos of complicated relationships

Tightly wrapped within a cocoon of your icy, cold self,

the harsh and cruel reality is the one and final eclipse

That is your nirvana, that is your long, torturous bliss,

that’s what’s written by fate, in all its useless scripts

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Your cocoon will hang forever - the dangling shell,

on a grey cracked wall, in the hall of eternal sadness

There it will hang, and you will squirm deep within,

away from the merry crowds, the throbbing madness

That will be your heaven, and that will be your hell,

both equally quiet, under the ever-ruling darkness

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When the bored God visits and knocks at the cocoon,

asking if you are still alive within the silent confines

You will scream from within, a long tormented wail,

‘I did what you asked me to do, I followed all the lines

I crushed my own ego, I buried it deep and still alive,

damning myself to patience, despite all the odd signs’

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And the God will laugh, He will laugh long and hard,

‘you pathetic asshole, you miserably crawling bastard

You tried to fight fate, but you failed to learn from life,

you were no crowned hero, you were merely a dastard

Now burn forever in your heaven, as it is also your hell,

self-torture is the only art you have really mastered’

A Dialogue with the Darkness (Previously, the Darkenss Within)

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When the self turns inward, the sharpest blade is awareness.

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I want a sharp knife;

the sharpest of all I have ever seen in this life

A knife with an ivory grip and a gleaming edge;

engraved with obscure ruins, carrying a death pledge

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I want to plunge it into my belly;

slicing it across, all through the quivering jelly

Cutting open myself and savoring the soothing pain;

smelling the oozing blood and enjoying the red rain

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The steaming guts will spill out;

and so will the coldness, without a doubt

I want to confront the coldness under my skin;

I so want to face the raging darkness within

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I want to feel their texture and what makes up my core;

the ice-cold mercury seeping out of each pore

I so want to sense their force, so binding and so freeing;

their powerful darkness vibrating in my being

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I want to question them all, the unanswered queries;

hanging in balance, the forever silent juries

I want to challenge them all, the reservoirs of valor;

forever loud but hollow, the reds masking my pallor

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Why do you reside within me?

Perhaps two despising lovers smiling with glee?

Or are you sent by my respectful adversaries,

not really bothered, and just two emissaries?

Song of Lilith

Posted in Poetry English by
lilith_by_marinacoric_d3i9i9j-fullview

Before Eve, before obedience, there was Lilith—and she asked why.

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O’ Lilith, our one mother, and the equal,

was it really you?

Upon the flowers of Eden,

the very first drops of dew?

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You were created out of wet earth,

the very first man’s very first mate

You were his equal, you were his partner;

a companion to him, his destiny, his fate

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It was you who took his side,

and it was you who reasoned

It was you who protested the submission,

the Devil’s shrewdness was so seasoned

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But then you were made a demon,

a vile and dark entity

But then you were made the fiend,

and you lost your real identity

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Were you really corrupt at some level?

Or did you have a rotten soul?

Is it because you are the logic,

which defies all faith and Adam’ role?

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Is this because you realized the concept,

or is this because you disobeyed God?

Or is it because you understood Him,

seeing religion as the original fraud?

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O’ Lilith, I think it was really you,

our only mother and the equal

You could be our grand salvation,

perhaps, the only chance we knew

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You gave birth to reason;

you did not birth us, perhaps

And you gave birth to justice,

reason and justice, victims of our lapse

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We have inherited your wisdom,

though we do not carry your genes

Let it lead to understanding the purpose,

let it become the fundamental means

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O’ Lilith, our one mother, and the equal,

was it really you?

Upon the flowers of Eden,

the very first drops of dew?

Me and the Devil, Walking Side by Side

Posted in Poetry English by
hannibalmanstag

What if the Devil was never evil—only loyal, misunderstood, and condemned?

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Me and the devil,

walking side by side

Me, the eager follower,

and him, the patient guide

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“Disobedience and arrogance?

Why, when you were His chosen?

Deviance and decadence?

Why, when you showed no cozen?”

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“Disobedience?”

The lightning flashed,

and in his eyes, a dark anger lashed

“It was always my plan,

not bowing to you, a helpless man”

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“Arrogance?”

The thunder boomed,

he whispered deeply and presumed

“It was always the obscurity,

my purity and your impurity”

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“Deviance?”

The wind screamed,

and his eyes darkly gleamed

“It was my sincere intention, and the one true path,

inviting His immense fury, His infinite wrath”

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“Decadence?”

The sky wept and went suddenly dark,

his smile grew wider, and there was a spark

“It was always the intention,

my love and my obsession”

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I understand all,

I comprehend all,

The agony of love,

misunderstood and rejected

The burden of loyalty,

a soul, broken and dejected

The Lament of Imagined Worlds (Previously, Harbingers of Doom)

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A journey through dreams where prophets whisper, and sirens lie, and where imagination walks among shamans, sinners, and dying fires.

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Sometimes, I imagine the most unimaginable,

playing with lightning within the clouds of doom

At other times, I dream the most indescribable,

part of another time, walking the hallways of gloom

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Sometimes, I visit the land of the sad throat singers,

their chords singing the melody - foretelling the end

Then there are men from the West - the tired gunslingers,

flames are dying slowly - the fires that they tend

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There are shamans from Tibet - humming ancient words,

and flutes playing softly, the lament of the damned

Lonely prophets in the streets - the ever-preying birds,

warning of the apocalypse, their words all crammed

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There are lonely gypsy women, with wings under their feet,

their crystal balls telling fabulous lies, all without shame

Sirens hungry for young blood with their smiles so sweet,

their seduction dancing the tango - a never-ending game

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I see the silent eyes of the mindless throng - ruled by sin,

smiles masking a thousand fetishes, all pleasure and lust

Tears of the guilty Midas, hiding the insatiable grin,

desires swirling in frenzy, their feet covered in rust

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I dream of the strange mer-people under the stormy seas,

the weight of the dark waters burdening their heart

Pale mermaids and their sad laments, begging on their knees,

weaving a million enticements, perfecting their art

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I dream of dense forests, under the humid skies,

the old, gnarled trees, standing a solemn guard

Roots gripping the black soil, upwards they rise,

the old gods sleep, their memories all marred

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Sometimes I imagine, and sometimes I only dream,

pastimes of a failed saviour and delusions of grandeur

Life is the darkest of all curses, and so it may seem,

users have failed the system, and He is only a voyeur