Draugr daughter; Dreadful death:
There once was a daughter of a man at the forge,
In a village shaded by the mountain’s shroud.
One day, while gathering herbs near the gorge,
She tripped and fell where the cliffs were proud.

Within, she spluttered and spat with a shout,
Yet clawed her way free from the chasm's blight.
But alas, she emerged not just dirtied throughout,
For her arm bore the mark of a strange, sharp bite.

Thus, as days passed, she became one all feared,
The draugr, the daughter of a man at the forge.
Drip and drape, she wept as the townsfolk jeered,
Even her father, at dinner, could not help but disgorge.

Till a fateful day, she was sold for a slip,
A trade unworthy, even for one who forges.
She became the general's cannon-fodder, his grip,
Sent ahead to take arrows by General George.

Days passed till at last she was left behind,
Her body creaked and cracked as she wept, drip-drab.
Till a soft voice asked, "What is this rattle I find?"
And two weary eyes beneath black hair had nabbed.

"Oh, my sweet," he whispered to the draugr's daughter,
It was Efil, the necromancer, dark and sly.
His hand held power, wicked as fire and water,
Yet she welcomed his touch beneath the cursed sky.

His magic restored her, pale as the rain,
Her hair turned raven, slick and sleek.
Their love was born from a morbid chain,
A draugr's daughter and one so unique.

For her, he raised musicians anew,
Their melodies soon turned to flowers.
But fate called Efil, as destinies do,
To transform into Life’s eternal tower.

The draugr daughter bore this with strife,
Her heart grew dark, vengeance her breath.
Till she warped and changed through her cursed life,
No longer a draugr, but Dreadful Death.

I met a queer man in a modern land,
Who spoke of brooks of bone and shattered stone.
He dipped his trembling fingers in the sand,
And watched the leaves drift far beneath the foam.

In shadows, soon, he found a hollow nook,
A corpse lay still upon a broken tome.
Upon its cover, words the man mistook:
"I bear a name that tarnishes like loam."

He asked, “What name is yours, what cursed brand?”
The corpse did stir and whispered through the gloom:
“I am Melarubiconib, condemned,
A name of silence, carved upon my tomb.”

The man stood silent, frozen by its breath,
The name, like shadow, led him into death

(this thing is a bit wild but I became obbsesed wwith the concept , apoligies if it makes no sense)            

                        Death be proud||du O R pe B hta E d
                               Forever lost||T s O lre VERO f
                      all has said truth||H t URT dia S s A h LL a
ghost magot and buried nun ||n UNDE i R ubdnat O g A m T so H

__
              /              \
            /  Locked tight  \
        /  upon the earth, \
        |    a lid sealed firm, |
        |  to hide the birth of  |
        |  what we seek and fear, |
        |  all buried deep, too  |
        |  close, too near.        |
        | Curiosity breaks the seal,|
        | whispers rise, dark truths |
        | revealed, shadows crawl, |
        \ through the crack, /
          \  they escape them all.  /
          | From every grief, to    |
          | every pain, out they    |
          | surge like heavy rain.  |
          | Yet, deep within, there |
          | lies a glow, the last  |
          | of things we may not    |
          | know. When all seems    |
            \ lost, so faint, so slight,/
              \ Hope, a flicker, a    /
                \  final light.    /

Oh, Para—

Paramedic?
I could also have healed you;
Para, you don’t need a medic.

Paraplegic?
I could also have been broken for you;
Para, you don’t need a plegic.

Paramilitary?
I would have fought your battles;
Para, you don’t need a military.

Why, oh why, could it not have stayed—
Just Parame?

She’s Morphine, queen of the vaccines,
She bruises so cold with nooses of plated gold.
A needle’s kiss to silence the screams,
In veins she flows, makes the broken bold.

With hollow eyes, she numbs the ache,
A dance of shadows in a hazy dream.
Her whispers soothe, her promises fake,
Like liquid sin in a silver gleam.

She lures with comfort, draped in deceit,
A siren song beneath trembling skin.
Each breath grows slower, bitter yet sweet,
As she pulls them deeper, where light grows thin.

Her kingdom reigns in shattered minds,
A queen of solace for the souls who weep.
But every high leaves truth behind,
And in her grasp, they fall too deep.

The final dose, the fatal crown,
Golden nooses now tighten tight.
The queen smiles soft, then drags them down,
To sleep forever in endless night.

One fine morning, without a word,
My socks went rogue—yes, it's absurd!
They formed a union, held a vote,
Demanded freedom (and a boat?).

They marched around my bedroom floor,
Chanting, "We won’t take sweat no more!"
They waved their heels in fierce protest,
Claiming, “Feet have been a pest!”

The left one said, “We need a break,
I’m tired of every step you take.
I suffer blisters, grime, and stench—
Your workouts leave me in a trench!”

The right one piped up, “Hear me out!
It’s always shoes that get the clout.
But who’s the hero down below?
It’s us who bear the toe-to-toe!”

My underwear, not far behind,
Whispered, “Honestly, I’ve had a mind…
To join this mutiny of cloth,
You sit all day? I’m feeling wroth!”

The irony? My hat just scoffed,
“It’s tough on you, you’re really soft.
Try sitting on a sweaty head,
Where sunshine makes your wool turn red!”

But then my gloves joined in the fray,
“Don’t get me started on cold days.
Fingers freezing, shoved in snow,
Yet still we wave hello and go!”

With socks now lounging on my chair,
I muttered, "Fine, I’ll go bare."
And as I walked across the floor,
The rug winked, “Careful! Im splinter core…”

So here I stand in grand defeat,
A sockless fool with naked feet.
But I can’t help but laugh, I swear—
Who knew my laundry had a flair?

Theseus, bright lad, thought he’d be slick—
He handed his dad a jar, said, “Pick
One wish, one hope, or maybe two!”
His dad just sighed, “What’s wrong with you?”

“Pandora’s pithos! Great for Dad’s shelf,
A jar of curses... or good luck itself!
But here’s the real gift, I swear it’s true—
White sails, Dad, when I’m coming to you!”

Off Theseus went, proud as a goat,
Without a thought, a plan, or note.
Sails? Who’d remember that part of the deal?
He returned in black like it wasn’t a big deal.

Old Aegeus squinted, peered out to sea—
“What’s that son of mine doing to me?!”
Saw those black sails and the jar in hand,
And took a dive, just like he’d planned.

So now we call it the Aegean Sea,
Thanks to one kid’s gift and faulty memory.
And Theseus? He shrugged, gave a clueless stare—
“That pithos gift? Yeah, it’s heirloom fare."