#styxx
Why would I go back to the gutter and the grey,
To the Misdirection that led my spirit astray?
Why would I feed the wolves that live in the dark,
Or blow out the candle to hide from the spark?
Why would I crawl when I’ve learned how to stand,
With a heart made of iron and a fire in my hand?
I’ve tasted the salt and I’ve swallowed the dust,
Why would I offer the shadows my trust?
Why would I build up a kingdom of light,
To be a beacon for those lost in the night?
Why would I reach through the static and screams,
To sew up the edges of someone else’s dreams?
Why would I offer the truth and the bone,
To make sure a stranger isn't walking alone?
Because I’ve been the Addict, I’ve been the slave,
And I know that a kindness is what truly can save.
Why would you ever think I’d do anything else,
Than burn down the heavens and conquer my hells,
Just to stay by your side when the world falls apart,
And shield the soft rhythm that beats in your heart?
Through the "Fire of Styxx" and the roar of the gale,
My promise is anchored; it’s not meant to fail.
After all that I’ve broken and all I’ve been through,
Why would I do anything... other than love you
Michael Powers
"STYXX ON FIRE "
Feb 3
Feb 3, 2026 at 10:18 AM UTC
The static hum has finally died away,
That hollow echo of a thousand gray-scale days.
I spent a lifetime locked inside a stare,
Breathing in the ghost of cold, recycled air.
I built these walls of salt and jagged stone,
To prove that I could feel just fine alone.
But there’s a shivering deep inside the chest,
A rhythmic beating waking from its rest.
It’s the friction of the heart against the cage,
The turning of a stained and heavy page.
The anesthesia’s wearing thin and bright,
And everything I buried is screaming for the light.
I felt the gravity pull me to the floor,
A sudden cracking of the cellar door.
No longer drifting like a wisp of smoke,
I felt the moment that the silence broke.
It’s a violent kind of mercy, this return of skin and bone,
To feel the sting of every scar I’ve ever called my own.
The world is loud, and sharp, and colored red,
A symphony of things I should have said.
I’ll take the salt, the sorrow, and the heat,
To feel the pavement burn beneath my feet.
No more the ghost, no more the hollow shell.....
I’m ringing like a strike against a bell.
The ice is gone. The flood is at the door.
I am human. I am hurting.
I Am Ñumb Ño More.....!
Michael Powers
"STYXX ON FIRE "
Feb 5
Feb 5, 2026 at 9:23 AM UTC
The city moves in a synchronized tide,
A million watches, perfectly allied.
They flow down the stairs of the concrete veins,
Bound by the invisible, golden chains.
The "proper" coffee, the "standard" commute,
A garden of logic with identical fruit.
But in the attic where the streetlamp dies,
A different geometry begins to rise.
He doesn’t speak in the common tongue,
Of ladder rungs climbed or songs already sung.
While they chase the roar of the winning side,
He’s mapping the places where the ghosts reside.
He keeps his secrets in a dog-eared book,
Ignoring the "should" and the sideways look.
For while the crowd seeks the warmth of the glow,
He’s learning the things that the stones only know.
It’s a quiet defiance, a refusal to blend,
A road that begins where the pavements end.
A life carved out of the static and rough.....
A brilliance they’ll label as... "Unherd Of"........
Michael Powers
"STYXX ON FIRE "
Feb 10
Feb 10, 2026 at 6:53 AM UTC
The ink is drying on the final page,
The velvet falls upon the darkened stage.
The embers whisper as the fires die,
And twilight gathers in the weary sky.
Yet deep within the hollow of the night,
A stubborn heart refuses to take flight.
There are too many words we left unsaid,
Too many winding roads we have not tread.
The melody was broken mid-refrain,
A sudden drought before the summer rain.
I stand before the closing of the door,
And fiercely, quietly, demand much more.
This cannot be the end—it is a pause,
A temporary breath, a waiting clause.
A heavy winter waiting on the spring,
A quiet bell preparing now to ring.
For time is vast and merciful and strange,
And every finish is a form of change.
So let the shadows settle if they must,
And let the silver monuments turn to dust.
Our story is not written in the sand,
But etched into the spirit, wild and grand.
The morning waits us just beyond the bend,
I promise you, this cannot be the end.
Michael Powers
"STYXX ON FIRE"
May 21
May 21, 2026 at 12:13 AM UTC