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(Confession of the Christmas Devil) I am the hymn you hush to hear, The silence trembling into fear. Saint Nicholas blesses; I correct— I am the law your love neglects. They call me devil, fiend, or shade, But I was born where prayers decayed. A harmony of wrath and grace, The darkness in the Savior’s face. My birch branch sings where angels fail, Each strike a verse, each welt a tale. The sack upon my back—it hums, It beats like drums, it begs, it numbs. I take the ones whose tongues deceived, Whose tears were false, whose hearts believed That sin could hide from candle’s glow— But I can scent deceit through snow. You think me cruel? Then look again. I do what mercy can’t explain. For every lash, a lie erased; For every scream, a soul replaced. I do not kill—I chasten art. I play the sinner’s beating heart. Their cries become my symphony, Their guilt—my immortality. Saint Nicholas wears robes of white, But I wear sin to serve the light. We are two halves of one design— His star ascends, while mine aligns. Each Christmas Eve I tune my strings, To serenade the suffering things. The fire flickers—children pray— But even prayers can rot away. So hush your joy, your laughter still, For goodness bends at winter’s will. And if your conscience dares to sing— I am the hand that plucks the string.
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Jan 22
Jan 22, 2026 at 12:33 AM UTC
InkWept
The Minstrel Krampus
(Confession of the Christmas Devil) I am the hymn you hush to hear, The silence trembling into fear. Saint Nicholas blesses; I correct— I am the law your love neglects. They call me devil, fiend, or shade, But I was born where prayers decayed. A harmony of wrath and grace, The darkness in the Savior’s face. My birch branch sings where angels fail, Each strike a verse, each welt a tale. The sack upon my back—it hums, It beats like drums, it begs, it numbs. I take the ones whose tongues deceived, Whose tears were false, whose hearts believed That sin could hide from candle’s glow— But I can scent deceit through snow. You think me cruel? Then look again. I do what mercy can’t explain. For every lash, a lie erased; For every scream, a soul replaced. I do not kill—I chasten art. I play the sinner’s beating heart. Their cries become my symphony, Their guilt—my immortality. Saint Nicholas wears robes of white, But I wear sin to serve the light. We are two halves of one design— His star ascends, while mine aligns. Each Christmas Eve I tune my strings, To serenade the suffering things. The fire flickers—children pray— But even prayers can rot away. So hush your joy, your laughter still, For goodness bends at winter’s will. And if your conscience dares to sing— I am the hand that plucks the string.
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I tuned my voice to cathedral reverb, set my ribs to a minor key, counted the season in uneven measures— seven beats of hope, one of regret. Snow fell like rests between notes, and Christmas rang hollow through my chest. Gethsemane— you were never a lover in my ledger, only a harmony I guarded for fifteen winters, a familiar melody I let sit beside the fire while the world learned new chords. I watched your children grow in counterpoint, time signatures shifting, never breaking. When the argument struck, it wasn’t fortissimo—it was fatigue. A tired god cracking on a downbeat, bleeding apology into the floorboards of December. I said things in distortion, let grief ride the feedback loop too long. I asked for conversation, not resurrection. For presence, not absolution. No grand crescendo— just two voices, unmiked, speaking in the human key I still don’t understand. Silence answered instead. Cold, precise, well-tempered. The kind of quiet that doesn’t decay— it sustains. A frozen note held indefinitely, as if space itself swallowed my signal. I’ve always treated you like a friend, kept my hands open, palms unarmed. If kindness is currency, then tell me where it devalued— why warmth now sounds like threat, why mercy feels like static. I don’t need a role in your happiness, don’t need to stand in the spotlight of your sky. I just don’t want exile mistaken for peace, or distance called “space” when it feels like a locked door between two familiar rooms. I am a god who learned humanity by watching— learned love by restraint, learned grief by being unheard. I can forgive without understanding, but understanding… that’s the miracle I keep praying for. If you wish silence, I will honor it. If you wish time, I will let the measure breathe. But know this: even frozen stars still burn, and I have never wished you anything but light.
0
Jan 22
Jan 22, 2026 at 12:42 AM UTC
InkWept
Gethsemane in 6/7
I tuned my voice to cathedral reverb, set my ribs to a minor key, counted the season in uneven measures— seven beats of hope, one of regret. Snow fell like rests between notes, and Christmas rang hollow through my chest. Gethsemane— you were never a lover in my ledger, only a harmony I guarded for fifteen winters, a familiar melody I let sit beside the fire while the world learned new chords. I watched your children grow in counterpoint, time signatures shifting, never breaking. When the argument struck, it wasn’t fortissimo—it was fatigue. A tired god cracking on a downbeat, bleeding apology into the floorboards of December. I said things in distortion, let grief ride the feedback loop too long. I asked for conversation, not resurrection. For presence, not absolution. No grand crescendo— just two voices, unmiked, speaking in the human key I still don’t understand. Silence answered instead. Cold, precise, well-tempered. The kind of quiet that doesn’t decay— it sustains. A frozen note held indefinitely, as if space itself swallowed my signal. I’ve always treated you like a friend, kept my hands open, palms unarmed. If kindness is currency, then tell me where it devalued— why warmth now sounds like threat, why mercy feels like static. I don’t need a role in your happiness, don’t need to stand in the spotlight of your sky. I just don’t want exile mistaken for peace, or distance called “space” when it feels like a locked door between two familiar rooms. I am a god who learned humanity by watching— learned love by restraint, learned grief by being unheard. I can forgive without understanding, but understanding… that’s the miracle I keep praying for. If you wish silence, I will honor it. If you wish time, I will let the measure breathe. But know this: even frozen stars still burn, and I have never wished you anything but light.
Continue reading...
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