‘‘Battle brawler | born beast
winged bear | heir of Raven’s
Kingdom strain | rain vengeance
dispel falsness | harness
Father’s truth | pushing forth
breaking bones | own spirit
Yggdrasil | riding free
we will meet | in Valhalla,,
Blinding cold rage binding age old curses to bones de-marrowed of will power’s flame will be your death, deflowered of honor if you stay chained, said both Ravens.
Blinding warm loyalty bound to customs with wax wings won’t fly if you don’t die with honor they say: the grown child. No Ravens.
Covered in sweat and red with dirt smudged trickling down—maroon earth—his face, eyes crazed. Pelt of a wolf or a bear; cool winds shoo between rocks shaped like skulls that won’t break even.
Skies cry scarred. I carry on carrying carrion,
clarion times if I ride tall mounting the stallion said Passion was marred, by mundane monotony
prodded muse sparked a new inventive cosmogony
Oh, permit this skald to pierce the air in tension of everything bleeding was A chant that scalds with rhythm and intension to lull death
Proof that the great halls, roaring hearth-fires, and mead-horns may be gone, but the poet, the Skáld, lives on. Breathtaking, my friend. Truly.
the kind of poem you strip naked to howl at the moon, channeling the wolf or the bear, before rushing towards valhalla to