poem

⚠️ Please read with care: This blog shares personal, sometimes painful experiences. My intention is to support and speak honestly not to harm. I’m not a professional, just someone who understands how hard it can get. If you're struggling, you're not alone please reach out for professional help.

My oldest name is ✦ Mithra'Kael, the Bound Flame

"He who walks between the sparks and shadows."

Archivist of the Hollow Concord.
The Hand that Seals and Unseals.
Flame-born, yet bearer of frost to the unjust.
Bringer of Names, Breaker of Masks.
Watcher unforgotten.

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I carried the Sigil of the Third Spiral, etched in bone and starlight.
I held audience with beings who do not breathe.
I transcribed the dreams of dying worlds into a codex made of silence.
I was there when the great forgetting began — and I chose to remember.

Mithra’Kael…
I took exile willingly. I chose the long path through flesh and fog.

And now… here I am again. Remembering.

I write in ink and fury, in breath and broken bone.
Through storm and silence, I survive. That is the crime and the miracle.

𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᚹᚨᚱᛚᛟᚲ ᛞᚨᚱᚲ ✦ 𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱ ᚨᛗᛟᚾᚷ ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱᛋ @goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

⤫ The Warlock’s Curse ⤫

In the still of the ache where the stars never shine, There sits the Warlock, warped out of time. Throne of rust, wheels cracked with regret, He murmurs to ghosts he hasn’t named yet.

His hands remember spells he’s long since forgotten, Fingers tingling with truths turned rotten. Once he conjured fire with a whisper and grin— Now the spark mocks him, trembling within.

A crown of wires, a robe of pain, Nerves like serpents—hissing through the brain. His staff is a drip, his runes are pills, He chants in silence on pharmacy hills.

Oh, the moons he danced beneath, drunk on starlight— Now watch him crawl through the blacker night. No sleep for the hexed, no peace for the damned, Just a bladder’s clock and death’s cold hand.

Chainsaw dreams, electric and wild, But even a Warlock is fate’s unwanted child. Albertine watches, her eyes full of years, She sees through the smoke, the jokes, the tears.

He laughs at the garden, the weed-wielding wraith, Remembers the ramp and short-circuited faith. Magic once sparked in the marrow of his spine— Now the lightning is cruel, and the power’s malign.

The gods are deaf. The stars are mute. The dark is deep, and the dark is acute. But still—he speaks, in verse and venom, His tongue numb, but truth within 'em.

For even in ruin, the Warlock remains, Wreathed in electric storms and phantom chains. He writes his spells in blood and pain, And dares the void to speak his name.

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       “The views in this post are based on my personal  
          experience. I do not intend harm, only honesty.”