Hope is such a fickle thing,
It cannot be denied.
Despair allows no bickering,
It cannot be defied.

Over seas of endless storms,
I row my boat alone.
The pain will come in endless forms
To turn dreams into stone.

Hope is such a fickle thing,
It’s driven me insane.
I’ve long run out of songs to sing,
There’s no more blood to drain.


Another summer is about to pass me by,
Just love still lingers where the oceans die;
And every word now has to be assumed a lie –
Let go of hope, for you have long bled dry.


’Twas folly to believe in lies,
Yet who would know what’s good and true?
Our words are clouds in empty skies
That in good time we come to rue.

’Twas folly all along, I know,
Yet hope clings to a mother’s dress.
If anything, it goes to show
What otherwise we shan’t confess.

’Twas folly, and you left me sore,
Yet played along as best you could.
I spelt your name with my own gore,
Bled dry, now leave me, if you would.

From the Lost Notes of the Deep Dweller’s Shipyard [New Fragment #6/Till Death Do Us Part]

Please never ask me how I keep going. I have no idea how – or even why, for that matter. All I know is this: The shadows will never tire of chasing me, and there is no long-term escape. Just now they are closing in on me again, as I stumble and sputter along the well-trodden path, bound for another fall. I can feel them everywhere, in the glaring sun as well as in the pale moonlight. The space to manœvre, or even move at all, decreases rapidly with each step and with each breath I take. I desperately clasp every little bit of happiness I have managed to get a hold on and tack on to my heart. Yet there is not a hope in hell when the time comes for the shadows to engulf me. And they will feast upon me, eagerly and mercilessly devouring whatever I may naively have believed to be mine to keep, from the fondest memories to the most intense feelings of love still lingering. Finally, they will leave me alone in the dark to rot for two eternities. Alas, they need my repeated suffering to nourish them, and so they will leave the seeds of false hope to be betrayed to grow another tree of life from within the despair-infested grounds. For where death would be the only true companion, only emptiness awaits to corrupt the very essence of my being. May the day that death do us part come soon.

No Hope in Hell

There is not a hope in hell,
Since hell does not exist.
There is no place for gods to dwell,
Just smoke and mirrors, mist.

The blind seek shelter in the night,
In mysteries of old.
The unexplained is their delight,
Thus, sceptics they will scold.

But reason cannot be undone,
And truth shall yet prevail.
Religion will be dead and gone,
And science be our sail.

The Vanity of Hope

And once more my feelings subside, as though they were not mine, or just a blurry dream from the distant past, unreal and far away.
I am out of touch with myself, knowing I do not belong here. No matter how often the sun return, I shall always end up alone in the dark.
The vanity of hope is a vice which can not be forgiven. The vicious mistress tempts us just so as to devour us, and then give rebirth to us in despair and disgust time and again.


Smile, sweet love, bring on the light
Into this never-ending dark.
Your eyes pervade the foggy night
And warm my broken, frozen heart.

Smile, sweet love, and do not fear,
I shall protect you from the storm.
No harm can reach you here, my dear,
And from your shine hope is reborn.

Smile, sweet love, you do not know
Just what you are, what you can do.
Forget about your childhood’s woe,
And trust me, I shall see you through.

Sometimes, I meet people, especially girls and women, who completely underestimate their true potential – which makes me sad. Indeed, this poem was inspired by someone like this. But I shall try to make you see. This is a promise.