- Posted on
🩸 Fifty Years in the Shadows (The Goblin’s Tale) 🩸
They call him Goblin, But he was born under a name no one could pronounce In a place no one cared to map, A damp hollow beneath rusted rail tracks, Where steam trains shrieked like tinnitus banshees And darkness soaked into his skin Until he became a shadow himself.
He’s lived fifty years in these borderlands Between pain and silence, Between sweat-drenched nightmares And flickers of stubborn hope – Because goblins are nothing if not stubborn.
He rides his three-wheeled trike death machine Through the crumbled remnants of dreams, Bong bubbling on his lap like a faithful pet, Eyes half-closed, Not from arrogance, But because he’s seen too much to bother blinking.
Cool in that way only the utterly broken become, Caring in a silent, side-eye goblin way – He’ll pass you a Rizla if you’re crying, Or grunt a dark joke if you’re shaking, Just don’t expect a hug. His love language is simply not leaving you to rot alone.
Fifty years of living hell Didn’t make him bitter, It made him aloof, calm, unshakable, A little bit fungal, A little bit cosmic.
He knows the darkness like a lover’s curve, Knows pain like an old tune on repeat, Knows despair like he knows his own name – Unpronounceable, heavy, and true.
But watch him when the moon is full, When the tinnitus steam trains howl loudest, You’ll see his eyes flicker bright for a moment – That’s him remembering He is not the darkness. He just rides it better than anyone else.
“The views in this post are based on my personal
experience. I do not intend harm, only honesty.”
“By ink and breath and sacred rage, I write.
By storm and silence, I survive.”
🧌✨ @goblinbloggeruk ✨🧌