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Northern Nights

Up north, where the moon is Odin’s Eye.

Where the stars align, behind

The emerald, crimson sky.


Like vertical velvet carpets, dancing in the night.

The Northern Light, so bright

The most beautiful palette, against the earthly white.


In this world, where weather is a weapon.

Where the edge of a knife, defines life

There is something that should not happen.


A lonely butterfly, with its wings covered in ice

Wings once soft as cotton, coldly forgotten.

Permafrost killed its cries.


A dazed guest in this land so feared and hallowed.

A land that alter water, weaponize snow and ice.

The butterfly did not know, until the land swallowed.


If you would ask it: Why did you come here?

The butterfly would stare, with care

And answer you right there.


“Under the sea, is no place for me.

But I have these beautiful things, called wings.

They take me anywhere I see.


I belong in the air, whether hot or cold.

I chased the beautiful light, in the night.

It had the colors of my wings I was told.”


And you may think this is an allegory

For war, a child refugee.

And it might be.


All I did was tell the tale

Of the butterfly who chased the beautiful colored trail.

And found the unforgiving, treacherous veil.

Now veiled and forgotten in the snow so pale.


Bilderesultat for broken butterfly

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There once was a man, dressed in all black

With a beak-like mask and feathers on his back.

A lonely wolf, without his pack.

He was a Ripper, but his name wasn’t Jack.


He once ravaged London, my current home.

Everybody thought he was the devil to roam.

He slayed whores and ripped their blood into foam.

Or so tells the tale, the false tome.


He was there to warn, not to mame.

But for people and their fear, it is all the same.

He was a Ripper of space, not Killer of dame.

An Angel from Eden, Indrid Cold was his name.


A slender man, pale to the eye.

He could not tell a single lie.

He ripped through space only to cry.

He saw through time, he told people they’d die.


Framed by demons as The Demon of Whitechapel.

He cought Jack, but lost the grapple.

He had to descend to nothingness, abrubtly rappel.

Branded a beast, like the snake and the apple.


For centuries he has fled.

Always someone wanting his head.

The only companions, soon to be dead.

No one would understand his eyes of glowing read.


He was not a killer, but people could not see.

He did not decide, he just knew the prophecy.

If man could just see, stay and listen, instead of just flee.

They could all know, he was merely a banshee.


A bringer of news of lives to expire.

He was from another dimension, both deeper and higher.

Now he is dead, killed by fire.

Men in Transylvania thought they killed a vampire.


Now to this day, I have ceased his identity.

No one needs to know his true entity.

My name is now Indrid Cold, I am a banshee.

I am here to aid humanity.


I care not for any mythic explenation or brand.

I see through realities, and I can rip them with my hand.

Now since Point Pleasant, I have guided man.

They now call me the Mothman.


I can not interfere, I can only expose.

I am the messenger of the thorned rose.

Some call me murderer, but Mothman the most.

My name is Ashcroft, like my father the ghost.