Molten Poetry

Let it burn.

Wōden-skald,
treebeard tall,
watched the
Serpent bind
Middengaerd’s
halls.

Roar! Warriors,
roar at the dark.

Roar at the evil
that lurks in
your hearts.

Scream at the Serpent,
who coils about
your wrists and throats,
crushing the warriors’ shout.

Jörmungandr constricts
the wind, the world,
the warrior’s soul,
as Middengaerd slowly
slips down into a hole.

Wōden-skald wept,
as he watched it all.
This time, he hadn’t
the strength to
stop the fall,
all while his warriors
fearfully howled
in their burning
halls.


©️ 2018.

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