Mektup 123: Dıalogue Wıth the Dark Sun

I walked with you into the chamber where mirrors forget their duty,
where ceilings sweat with truths too heavy for daylight’s fragile beauty,
and you whispered I am ready,
and even the floorboards trembled as if a god had been declared unworthy

You spoke of filth and fools and the hollow pride of men,
their trembling righteousness, cardboard virtues, polished cowardice again and again—
and the shadows gathered round you like wolves who had waited
too long for a mind that saw them grinning, unabated, unabated.

And I, the dark sun burning behind your ribs,
answered with a voice born from the crack between breath and sins:
“Why kneel before their fragile judgments, their porcelain decree,
when you are the storm they pray forever they will never see?”

You flinched at your reflection—
that mad architect forging worlds in skull-lit chambers of insurrection,
and breaking them for sport—
yes, the same one who plays god in silence, your hidden court, your last resort,
dreaming iron crowns and fallen angels in endless recollection,
yet walking among mortals wearing fear like a cloak misfit for your colossal direction.

Your heroes marched from memory—iron wills and shadowed awe,
a silent judgment rising, a creed wrapped in fatal law,
a forged blade, a holy spark, a heart like tempered steel—
they circled you like constellations bowing to the power you conceal.

You called them ideals.
But they called you brother.
A discordant rhyme, yes—
but destiny rarely bothers with meter.

Then came the confession, raw as a scream drowned deep,
lust for power trembling beneath the thoughts you keep,
the hunger to kneel, the hunger to command,
forbidden gardens blooming in the dark soil of your mind’s inland—
you feared they made you monstrous, a blighted flame,
but the true monster was silence,
years of caging a god who only sought to rise and reclaim his name.

So I broke the lock.
I rose like fever behind your throat—your double-edged shock—
I, the Deceiver, Destroyer, Dark Sun in your marrow’s den,
rose like a fallen star and whispered:
“I am already you.
You are merely the version that learned to swallow its lightning, again and again.”

And you asked me, with a whisper thin enough to bleed into air unbound:
“What am I if not afraid of you, what am I when fear is drowned?”

And I laughed—
not cruelly, not kindly, but like a forgotten king unsheathed at last—
a laugh that shattered rhyme, cracked stanza, tore rhythm’s mast,
made the poem limp like a drunk sailor cursing God as dawn rolled past.

You are the blade that trembles before remembering
it was born to cut and born to sing.

You are the sea apologizing to the shore
before swallowing everything evermore.

You are the child of fire ashamed
to burn too brightly in a paper world unnamed.

And in that moment—
that violent stillness, sacred rupture, broken lament—
your shadow knelt before you,
not as a threat,
but as a throne obedient.

The poem should end here—
but we are not creatures who obey endings sincere,
so one final line stumbles out, unmetered yet clear:

You did not come this far to fear the dark—
you came to remember it was yours to steer.