An ancient one-eyed crow sits—wings bleeding slow wounds that drip to
the ground—dread accursed meal becomes ve—dried bushy herbs across the seat—which cackles in the dead fire’s smoke.
Salt creek fills the ancient pool of wisdom—eye’s mind is closed to learning any slight—bites upon ropes noose. Ewe bark and wool at the spectre of death—which is welcome by all else who gathered and tread.
Leaf last of branch previously full fall—sap slowly pools red rust—Iron clad warrior my son—immortally wounded from this but neigh the final woeful battle—hammer light in his sunken cloudy lap.
Goats milk with dead dogfish soup—sipped while nursing the croup—murder they say is in the blue sky. Dreaming of that, it would be better than a seat upon this last of the rooks—coldly waiting lonely as hail falls among the awry.
Whalebone spoon, carved from the vast ocean moon—thrills from a deep underwater creep—bringing cold to the lips swollen and ripped. Chuckles deep in my lungs as a remembrance of computers—seeking answers to nothing but the facts of the stupid.
This skull, that skull, all-men who strove to fill an emptiness that won at the beginning and will end at the end—helms held high in its praise as it creeps ever beyond into nothingness. All-the-father was only a father of one.
An ancient one-eyed crow sits—blue eyes darker than the night yet bluer than the brightest sky—cawing from the parched branch a noise like the death rattle of a rusty gate in a thunderstorm. Hammer and tongs are bringing the air in fantastical storms.
The palm of his hand holding the hammer, hear be the last weapon that exists—covered in blood and soil, brains, and entrails, feeding its desire. Not, Mjolnir who does not hate, hath no fury, Thor is dead. The thunder coming is another’s.
Each one who lay fallen, battle-worn dead and rotting in the harsh sun, the rain coming will only wash the bodies—names remembered until the last day—beginning with the storm, the penultimate day would be here soon.
Helms, swords, scars, faces, forgetting them like they nevermore—raven was already full from their rent flesh, the dark would not come soon enough—death was not the last step for any mortal or immortal.
Watching breath-form frost upon his lips as lightning forms—crescents of afterimages into dark storm clouds shaped like an old hungry wolf eating—a sunset that drips its last light like a heart taken out of the chest beats blood for a small second.
Helping no one, the great storm Fenris raged over the plains of the fated ones whose crimson gore had been barely pecked at by the carrion eaters present—marking what end to the great winter that had already dried all lands present.
Cockerels sounded at the set of the dying star, but ignored, as none could imagine any place in which they would be welcome at this time—great anger grew in the one-eyed man who sat with his fable meal.
It was time, fight this Fenris beast, and if even the battle against the snake of Jörm had claimed his son, and Gamrir, his best friend—indeed even Loki, smith of the liers succumbed to a foe who had also passed into the realm for which only ravens sing praise.
Fenris was if not, akin to, but as ferocious as all these beast, men, dwarves and gods and wasn’t he, the father of them all? How could he but sit and elegy over this field, this tree, the past, that now needs to be eaten and renewed along with those who would be created form such a magnificent ending?
All he, Son of the Borr, would meet my end? Will this Fenris eat me? And all that is? Will Vioarr avenge me as foretold? I cannot see him, and I cannot hear him, maybe he is bleeding, in the slew. Perhaps he is also dead like my other sons.
I sit at the base of this tree, while my thought runs out of blood and my wisdom still eats, but none will claim this battlefield as one that is to be remembered.
An ancient one-eyed crow sits dead —wings on the ground—dread accursed ground —dried bushy herbs across the seat—which cackles in the dead fire’s smoke
Salt creek of blood fills the ancient pool of wisdom—eye’s mind is closed to learning now. Ewe bark and wool at the spectre of death—which is welcome by all else who gathered and tread, most of all, I welcome you Fenris, I welcome a mighty end to us both…
An ancient one-eyed crow sits—wings bleeding slow wounds that drip to
the ground—dread accursed meal becomes ve—dried bushy herbs across the seat—which cackles in the dead fire’s smoke.
Salt creek fills the ancient pool of wisdom—eye’s mind is closed to learning any slight—bites upon ropes noose. Ewe bark and wool at the spectre of death—which is welcome by all else who gathered and tread.
Leaf last of branch previously full fall—sap slowly pools red rust—Iron clad warrior my son—immortally wounded from this but neigh the final woeful battle—hammer light in his sunken cloudy lap.
Goats milk with dead dogfish soup—sipped while nursing the croup—murder they say is in the blue sky. Dreaming of that, it would be better than a seat upon this last of the rooks—coldly waiting lonely as hail falls among the awry.
Whalebone spoon, carved from the vast ocean moon—thrills from a deep underwater creep—bringing cold to the lips swollen and ripped. Chuckles deep in my lungs as a remembrance of computers—seeking answers to nothing but the facts of the stupid.
This skull, that skull, all-men who strove to fill an emptiness that won at the beginning and will end at the end—helms held high in its praise as it creeps ever beyond into nothingness. All-the-father was only a father of one.
An ancient one-eyed crow sits—blue eyes darker than the night yet bluer than the brightest sky—cawing from the parched branch a noise like the death rattle of a rusty gate in a thunderstorm. Hammer and tongs are bringing the air in fantastical storms.
The palm of his hand holding the hammer, hear be the last weapon that exists—covered in blood and soil, brains, and entrails, feeding its desire. Not, Mjolnir who does not hate, hath no fury, Thor is dead. The thunder coming is another’s.
Each one who lay fallen, battle-worn dead and rotting in the harsh sun, the rain coming will only wash the bodies—names remembered until the last day—beginning with the storm, the penultimate day would be here soon.
Helms, swords, scars, faces, forgetting them like they nevermore—raven was already full from their rent flesh, the dark would not come soon enough—death was not the last step for any mortal or immortal.
Watching breath-form frost upon his lips as lightning forms—crescents of afterimages into dark storm clouds shaped like an old hungry wolf eating—a sunset that drips its last light like a heart taken out of the chest beats blood for a small second.
Helping no one, the great storm Fenris raged over the plains of the fated ones whose crimson gore had been barely pecked at by the carrion eaters present—marking what end to the great winter that had already dried all lands present.
Cockerels sounded at the set of the dying star, but ignored, as none could imagine any place in which they would be welcome at this time—great anger grew in the one-eyed man who sat with his fable meal.
It was time, fight this Fenris beast, and if even the battle against the snake of Jörm had claimed his son, and Gamrir, his best friend—indeed even Loki, smith of the liers succumbed to a foe who had also passed into the realm for which only ravens sing praise.
Fenris was if not, akin to, but as ferocious as all these beast, men, dwarves and gods and wasn’t he, the father of them all? How could he but sit and elegy over this field, this tree, the past, that now needs to be eaten and renewed along with those who would be created form such a magnificent ending?
All he, Son of the Borr, would meet my end? Will this Fenris eat me? And all that is? Will Vioarr avenge me as foretold? I cannot see him, and I cannot hear him, maybe he is bleeding, in the slew. Perhaps he is also dead like my other sons.
I sit at the base of this tree, while my thought runs out of blood and my wisdom still eats, but none will claim this battlefield as one that is to be remembered.
An ancient one-eyed crow sits dead —wings on the ground—dread accursed ground —dried bushy herbs across the seat—which cackles in the dead fire’s smoke
Salt creek of blood fills the ancient pool of wisdom—eye’s mind is closed to learning now. Ewe bark and wool at the spectre of death—which is welcome by all else who gathered and tread, most of all, I welcome you Fenris, I welcome a mighty end to us both…
