The White Demon

It came at dusk, when fire was low—

that whisper through the winter snow.

A flicker first, a curl of charm,

no sword in hand, no show of harm.

❄️

It wore no crown, no iron plate,

but moved with ease through every gate.

It found me tired, found me thin,

and offered warmth to pull it in.

❄️

Its eyes were pale—so pale they bled—

like chalk or ash or things long dead.

It smiled like kin. It spoke like song.

It told me I had waited long.

❄️

“I know the weight that bends your back,”

it hissed with silk and coal-black tact.

“I know your war, your silent screams—

but I can grant you brighter dreams.”

❄️

Behind it came the shadow-lords:

the gleaming cups, the amber swords.

They danced like flame, like old regrets,

like nights you drink to just forget.

❄️

Their names I knew—though none were said.

They licked the air. They bowed their heads.

They dressed as joy. They laughed as friends.

But every touch betrayed false ends.

❄️

I tried to stand. My knees were clay.

The wind outside had lost its way.

I knew this foe. I’d seen its tricks.

Its silver tongue, its hunter’s fix.

❄️

I’d fought it once. I’d claimed a win.

But silence lets it back within.

Not loud, not brute, but calm and sleek—

it waits until you’re tired and weak.

❄️

The room grew thick with unseen thread.

My thoughts were webbed. My soul half-dead.

“Come rest,” it said. “Come taste, come see—

The world is kinder under me.”

❄️

And in that hour, blade felt far.

The shield too heavy, wounds too charred.

I almost bowed. I almost wept.

But something stirred that I had kept—

❄️

A scrap of light beneath my ribs,

a flicker in the hollowed cribs.

A growl, a spark, a broken cry—

too mad to quit, too proud to die.

❄️

I stood. I shook. I met its face.

The White Thing grinned and held its place.

The shadow-drinks, the grinning horde,

unsheathed their lies and raised their swords.

❄️

“You want a fight?” the demon spoke.

Its voice now smoke, its calmness broke.

“You’ll bleed for years. You’ll starve and crawl.

And still one day, you’ll lose it all.”

❄️

I spat and said, “Then let it come.

I’ll fall with teeth. I’ll rise with drum.

You may outlast, but not out-burn—

for I will die before I turn.”

❄️

The storm it brought was cold and vast.

A hundred nights, each like the last.

No sleep, no peace, just fire and shame—

a war without a face or name.

❄️

But I endured. And I endure.

For nothing soft was ever pure.

And every time I choose to breathe,

I steal a weapon from its sheath.

❄️

Some days it sits beside my bed,

and whispers poison in my head.

It wears the voice of friends I lost.

It counts the cost. It mocks the cost.

❄️

But I am steel. I am the gate.

I drink the dark, and spit the fate.

And though my hands still shake with sin—

I’ve barred the White Thing from within.

❄️

So if you see me in the fray,

half-lit by dawn, half-ghost, half-pray—

know this: I’ve walked through fire and worse.

I’ve buried friends. I’ve cursed the curse.

❄️

But still I walk. And still I fight.

And still I guard that inner light.

For demons dressed in white are sly,

but not all warriors choose to die.

❄️

🪓 Like what you read?🪓

🪙 Then toss a coin into the fountain.

Make a wish —

for wilder words, sharper truths,

and more wild-folk with wild hair doing wild things.

Each offering stirs the water, feeds the fire,

and helps one such beast keep writing beneath the stars.

More Symbolic Poetry From Ulf