Eternal Night

I’ve started working on a short story sort-of-thing late last night. The first part is done. The idea behind this is more a training exercise in the craft, not the art. I’m trying to play around with a switching point of view and a-whole-lot mrs dialogue than I usually use. I find dialogue in written stories awkward; something I need to learn to get better at. This is my first attempt on that.  So, without further rambling about, here it is.


They say, “The night is darkest just before the dawn.” Beautiful, though a cliche. It makes me imagine a rising sun on a burning horizon. I think of a glimpse of morning light, of hope, after all seemed lost. I think of a phoenix soaring towards the new born dawn. Leaving a trail of glowing ashes. But there won’t be a dawn.

This is the year of the eternal night. The sky is thick. So thick, the air underneath this blanked of ash and dust hurts to breath in. You cling to every breath you can find, as if it was your child. Your most precious accomplishment. When you have to let go of it, you always seem to lose just a little more of yourself.

Desperate way to live… read more [Eternal Night – One]

Timeless (Endzeit)

Our friends marched for us proud,
sirens sing the war songs loud;
Songs from fall after their pride.

Mushrooms cloud the skies beyond,
as our hearts in hate respond.
Lost we all guilt for those that died?


The wind sighs still, it’s raining light,
and the grin of death spreads wide
before an irony undone.

Timeless now a man guards steady,
with his rifle at the ready,
as once his father, soon his son.


We take the names we once possessed,
and lay them ‘pon our eyes to rest,
for they may see the soul as star.

Though we walk tired, we march far.

Are we now doomed for all etern’,
seek we no more, yet, still we yearn?
Like dead, these crows lead our way,
farther more on paths astray.

So look we back to sorry lot,
we were not child, though grew we not.
What’s left from there, what we once knew,
but many lost and from us few?

The names forgotten and no more deserved,
and faded the eyes, and our souls are unnerved;
we are just a face in the dust of our time.

So turn we away from home and our prime.

We are but crumbs for crows to pick,
not more than restless, wicked, sick –
and tired of a world unknown;
The world to which our home has grown.

Part III (ext) – Poem of a mad man


Fallen are the words of old,
A screaming wind my soul has sold.
Too high the heights, that I have found.

Fallen too, the highest foul,
The angel, that clawed wings so cruel
In my despair and guilt unbound.

As hands then reached a stranger one,
And moments too familiar shone,
Lost the word another Reich.

Too late my heart could realize
Our words were but demise,
For heaven and for hell alike.

Part III – Dreams and Deception

As if it was a dream within a dream, I found myself under a starless sky. A weeping Venus, a moon in the mask of death, and no soul but my own were left. The air was thick with promised bloodshed, prophecies of a foul Eden, midnightmares and spiritual abortion, and though I knew about the foulness of this dream, I could not stop it.
I did not want to let it end, too afraid it might escape my subconsciousness, assume reality. Consume my very being.
Though, even in this corruption I could find euphoria. And as the Venus of my dreams faded in her last tear, the grinning Luna stood between us. On the horizon of my mind, the beauty of last night stood tall, yet lifeless. Consumed by a goddess, the first wife of man, this woman left my dreams. And somewhere, shimmering in the thickening air, that now stole my breath completely, I could feel her, the whore of Babylon. My sweet Lamia, always have you been my Sin.
And in this dream within a dream, expelled from light, I died for her.

At last I broke free from my catharsis. As I awoke, I glimpsed morning—and death within its dawn. My nocturnal companion, the beautiful night owl, was no longer with me. In the light of Venus we fell to love and sin, but it was the fading moon, that parted us. And with us, a cruelty within her broke free.
I knew that the demoness, that her heart kept sealed, will live on – for some evil are too cruel, even for death—though her hostess ceased life as the new dawn was born. I moved not but wondered, what curse might her death have set free upon this very earth. Night owl, precious first wife, have you yet again awoken, just to leave me once more? Deceived, forsaken, I could not but yearn for her return once again.
I spread apart her grip of death and left this meaningless daughter of Eve. Beautiful in her mortal guise, she will join the filth upon which she lost her last breath. And I knew, Venus now would be a darker one.

Betrayed and played by a greater plot, yet to be defined, I continued my march to find answers. Though broken with an abyss she left in my heart, alone this march should not be.
In the ruins of the cities of old, long burned by Michael’s ignorance, long washed away by the will of the flood, I stumbled upon a creature without reason. Though the will in his tongue and the wisdom in his eyes, tormented by thousands of years of truth, was so strong, I could not resist to learn about this all too familiar stranger.
I called him the mad man, and he, in twisted tongues, gladly agreed.

»Nothing is true. Anything could be.«

A presence surrounded him, as if it was a storming midnight. His body was punished and broken, and two scars of old tore over his back. It was almost as if I could feel the vast power of long lost wings embracing the horizon. It was the highest arch of heaven, now broken and nothing but a dogma of ancient texts and undesired rites, that lingered in the mad man’s eyes.

Now he cowered between fallen walls and rotten stone. His immortal soul hungered but his heart soon should cease.
Where is the fire in your sheath, the righteousness in your voice, I asked the last of the saints. Are you too now fallen, brother?
Not knowing whether he should laugh or cry, the mad man sought to stand, though his legs could find no strength. Feeble, like a dying candle, his voice broke harsh from his throat.
»The past has failed us, old friend«, he said. »The [God] you and I once knew is nothing but a moralized phantasy. Man-made idolized history of betrayal and deception. The true spark of the divine, the dream we once shared, fell with the last of the dragons. Now no morning sun would shine, no faith could prevail. Left is, what remains in man as shattered faith and scattered believe. Though what truly was, that is no more.«
It saddened me, and my soul felt nothing but cold within his words.
He called me father, when he said, »We are forgotten. Left to rot by those we loved most. Too blind was our eye, driven by ignorance was our hand. The creation took its course and the sands of time are running low. Who could save these dire times, truly, who is like [God]?«
I knelt before him to touch his cheek and so much I wanted to take this pain from him. I could not bare to see the saint like this, yet neither could I turn on him.
His eyes pierced mine and with pearls of fever on his forehead he climbed to his ultimate conclusion.
»I can see it in your eyes«, he said. »[God]«, he whispered, »[God] is dead. You know it to be true.«
With a heavy heart, and an even heavier revelation as our eyes met for the last time, I then turned.
And in my eyes, or at least so I believe now, he saw what his dying heart has longed to see for so long.
Nothing is true. Anything could be.
Michael, I said, you of all fallen should know best …
And as I felt the cold air around him lighting up in a smile as pure as that of a child, he then spoke his last words.

»May you have mercy on my soul.«