Within the fortress of my chest,
two armies rise at dawn—
one clad in crimson silk,
the other in shadowed steel.
Love, with hands warm as sunrise,
lays flowers along the corridors of my mind, promising peace in a voice
that feels like home.
Hate, with eyes like storm-torn skies,
sets fire to every blooming thing,
swearing the ruin is mercy,
and the ashes, my salvation.
They march the same veins,
drink from the same pulse,
speak in the same tongue—
and yet their banners
will never fly side by side.
Some nights, Love wins
and the world feels golden.
Some nights, Hate takes the crown
and I sharpen my silence into swords.
But more often—
they lock arms in stalemate,
pressing their weight upon my soul,
neither yielding,
neither retreating,
leaving me
to live in the uneasy kingdom
where both are king.
"The heart of man is a divided river,
and its two streams know not the other’s course."
— Epic of Gilgamesh
...
Aug 1, 2025
Aug 1, 2025 at 10:48 AM UTC
Within the fortress of my chest,
two armies rise at dawn—
one clad in crimson silk,
the other in shadowed steel.
Love, with hands warm as sunrise,
lays flowers along the corridors of my mind, promising peace in a voice
that feels like home.
Hate, with eyes like storm-torn skies,
sets fire to every blooming thing,
swearing the ruin is mercy,
and the ashes, my salvation.
They march the same veins,
drink from the same pulse,
speak in the same tongue—
and yet their banners
will never fly side by side.
Some nights, Love wins
and the world feels golden.
Some nights, Hate takes the crown
and I sharpen my silence into swords.
But more often—
they lock arms in stalemate,
pressing their weight upon my soul,
neither yielding,
neither retreating,
leaving me
to live in the uneasy kingdom
where both are king.
"The heart of man is a divided river,
and its two streams know not the other’s course."
— Epic of Gilgamesh
...
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