In shadowed vale where tombs abide,
A man once walked with grief as guide—
His cup was full, his soul was torn,
He drank to drown the child he’d mourn.
The wine grew dark, the stars grew dim,
And voices crept to speak through him.
Not one, but many—cold and sly—
They whispered truths that made him cry.
They took his name, they took his sleep,
They made him howl, they made him weep.
He tore his flesh, he broke the chain,
And danced with ghosts in wind and rain.
The village fled, the swine grew still,
The tombs became his home and hill.
He laughed at night, he cursed the day,
And begged the moon to fade away.
But lo! A boat upon the shore,
A stranger stepped—he spoke no lore.
He looked, not through, but into me,
And said, “Be gone, thou host of three.”
The demons shrieked, the pigs did run,
The sea devoured every one.
And I, once mad, now clothed and sane,
Stood trembling in the morning rain.
The villagers, with eyes like stone,
Beheld me healed, yet left alone.
But He, the stranger, turned and said:
“Go tell the living what was dead.”
So now I walk, no longer bound,
My voice is mine, my soul is sound.
Yet still, on All Hallows’ Eve I cry—
For I was Legion, once… and I.
🕯️ I Am Legion
A monologue from the tombs
I was a man once.
A mason by trade, a father by grace, until the wine turned bitter and the nights grew long.
I drank to forget the child I buried,
the wife who stopped singing,
the silence that settled like dust in my bones.
The village turned their eyes away.
I turned mine toward the bottle.
I drank until the stars blurred and the earth opened.
That’s when they came.
Not with fire.
Not with fury.
But with whispers.
A thousand voices,
each one a wound,
each one a name I never asked to carry.
They slid into me like smoke,
like regret,
like knives wrapped in velvet.
I woke in the tombs.
Naked.
Bleeding.
Laughing.
I tore my clothes.
I shattered chains.
I howled at the moon and called it mother.
They called me mad.
They called me cursed.
But I was Legion—
not a man,
but a multitude.
And then…
He came.
A boat.
A man.
A silence deeper than mine.
He stepped onto the shore,
and the voices screamed.
They clawed at my throat,
begged to flee,
but He looked at me—not through me,
at me.
“Come out,” He said.
And they did.
Like smoke.
Like storm.
Like a thousand birds fleeing a burning tree.
They rushed into swine.
The swine rushed into sea.
And I fell to my knees,
weeping like a child who remembered his name.
The villagers came.
They saw me clothed,
sane,
silent.
They feared Him.
They asked Him to leave.
But I begged to follow.
He said no.
He said, “Go home.
Tell them what mercy looks like.”
So I did.
And the next morning,
I stood at my door,
the sun warm on my face,
my hands trembling with memory.
I was a man once.
And by grace,
I am again.
🌊📖✨🪶📚🌀🕊️🎙️👣
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