I rise beneath the eye of Tartarus,
where the air scent is coal and iron,
and the river of lost thoughts spiral and twist like a python coiling
around my spine.
The specter speaks in Hades’ tongue:
step into the black, the dark calls,
let the Styx carry your trembling limbs,
let the ferryman close his ledger.
I feel the pull of Erebus,
its fingers tangled in my rasp throat
its shadow pressing like a mountain
on my lungs.
Yet still, I draw a faint and shallow breath.
Still, the recoil of my lungs is revolt,
still, tendons of my body cries: not yet.
Cerberus gnashes at my feet violently,
but I walk past three gnashing mouths of flame,
knowing the teeth cannot reach the heart
that has learned to beat through storms,
and all the raging floods of time.
Desire and dread mingle in my veins,
scales of great Leviathan grinding in the swollen arteries,
and the mind becomes a labyrinth
where Minotaur waits, silent, patient,
ready to gauge on the weight of being.
The thought returns, an army of Phlegethon,
promising oblivion like Persephone’s kiss,
but I grip the world like Atlas’ globe,
shaking under the enormous weight,
refusing to crumble.
Each heartbeat a sword,
each breath a shield,
and still the underworld whispers,
still the gods gamble with my pulse,
but I walk forward,
clad in the fire of my own persistence,
my cracking bones singing to the chorus of defiance.
Let them send their shades,
let them tempt with rivers of forgetfulness,
let them summon Typhon in the chest,
I will not yield.
Even in the deepest dark,
I am a temple burning,
a monument to stubborn flesh,
a body that remembers
how to claw against the darkness and abyss.
And when the night hurls its full arsenal
storm, shadow, memory, despair
I rise again,
like Orpheus escaping the dead,
like a titan shrugging the weight of the world,
like a soul that will not surrender,
because even in this hell,
breath is rebellion.
Jan 29
Jan 29, 2026 at 1:58 PM UTC
I rise beneath the eye of Tartarus,
where the air scent is coal and iron,
and the river of lost thoughts spiral and twist like a python coiling
around my spine.
The specter speaks in Hades’ tongue:
step into the black, the dark calls,
let the Styx carry your trembling limbs,
let the ferryman close his ledger.
I feel the pull of Erebus,
its fingers tangled in my rasp throat
its shadow pressing like a mountain
on my lungs.
Yet still, I draw a faint and shallow breath.
Still, the recoil of my lungs is revolt,
still, tendons of my body cries: not yet.
Cerberus gnashes at my feet violently,
but I walk past three gnashing mouths of flame,
knowing the teeth cannot reach the heart
that has learned to beat through storms,
and all the raging floods of time.
Desire and dread mingle in my veins,
scales of great Leviathan grinding in the swollen arteries,
and the mind becomes a labyrinth
where Minotaur waits, silent, patient,
ready to gauge on the weight of being.
The thought returns, an army of Phlegethon,
promising oblivion like Persephone’s kiss,
but I grip the world like Atlas’ globe,
shaking under the enormous weight,
refusing to crumble.
Each heartbeat a sword,
each breath a shield,
and still the underworld whispers,
still the gods gamble with my pulse,
but I walk forward,
clad in the fire of my own persistence,
my cracking bones singing to the chorus of defiance.
Let them send their shades,
let them tempt with rivers of forgetfulness,
let them summon Typhon in the chest,
I will not yield.
Even in the deepest dark,
I am a temple burning,
a monument to stubborn flesh,
a body that remembers
how to claw against the darkness and abyss.
And when the night hurls its full arsenal
storm, shadow, memory, despair
I rise again,
like Orpheus escaping the dead,
like a titan shrugging the weight of the world,
like a soul that will not surrender,
because even in this hell,
breath is rebellion.
29 January 2026
The Titans Night
