HUNTED IN INVIOLABLE BLOOD.
Cannot find Reality alive here
Scars, much mentioned, are all too well in
(Lighting the nightlatern and stepping above the frozen crust)
Paid far more than all of life’s values
and I am driven thousands of years into Death
My name: The Mights’ first risen endstone
A chalice brought me back up from the Well
to where sorrow and hiding alone found my life
Herded through set and made misfortunes to timber,
fastached memories where denied the Worlds been dormant
while all the days’ bite remained as bitten together
until refusal was dragged in here; to its very final remnant
Served out revilers in late for useful grave embraces
so proud over their stolen, undeserved aged greatness,
and clung on up the gable sit all the pretty platelickers
while Midgard truly rotted, stiffed, to meaninglessness
Seated comfortably benched stares deceit at this waiting,
begs so dearly what righteous was worth for the Worlds
and wishes my presence to bite sloppily and pitifully,
harshly; and to finally spit their sickness in after their bites
Risting firmly that done so becomes Time.
Know that Truth is my burial mound.
Know now or never.
(Extinguishing the nightlantern and stepping through the frozen crust)
Poetry by 1 SIGFRIDSSON
Read 136 times
Written on 2023-11-02 at 14:45
Tags Mights Midgard Truth
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MIDWINTER’S ENDSTONE
Darkness has hidden my pathsCannot find Reality alive here
Scars, much mentioned, are all too well in
(Lighting the nightlatern and stepping above the frozen crust)
Paid far more than all of life’s values
and I am driven thousands of years into Death
My name: The Mights’ first risen endstone
A chalice brought me back up from the Well
to where sorrow and hiding alone found my life
Herded through set and made misfortunes to timber,
fastached memories where denied the Worlds been dormant
while all the days’ bite remained as bitten together
until refusal was dragged in here; to its very final remnant
Served out revilers in late for useful grave embraces
so proud over their stolen, undeserved aged greatness,
and clung on up the gable sit all the pretty platelickers
while Midgard truly rotted, stiffed, to meaninglessness
Seated comfortably benched stares deceit at this waiting,
begs so dearly what righteous was worth for the Worlds
and wishes my presence to bite sloppily and pitifully,
harshly; and to finally spit their sickness in after their bites
Risting firmly that done so becomes Time.
Know that Truth is my burial mound.
Know now or never.
(Extinguishing the nightlantern and stepping through the frozen crust)
Poetry by 1 SIGFRIDSSON
Read 136 times
Written on 2023-11-02 at 14:45
Tags Mights Midgard Truth
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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