Look at you.
Getting beaten up,
Being everyones *****.
What have you become?

A tired old man
A broken god
No one remembers the glory
No one remembers your help

The ravens have left you
They travelled south
Looking for other victims
Victims of fame and glory

They tortured you,
Tormented you,
Played you,
Glorified you.

And you prevailed,
Oh you conquered.
You led;
You achieved.

But you're just tired now,
This is part of your plan.
Time to go and relieve yourself.
Meet your Ragnarok

Ignorances innate wove curtain of veils
Cut usunder heretofore obscuring
Bodhicittas valedictory wintry gloom torn
Of enlightenments will factioning the
Silenced mammonish city kingdom truced
As the wings of Azrael clinch
Earthly thistles; monolithic raiments
Deposed Hull, Hell and Halifax parcae
The willowing of light unfettering Fenrirs
Durance, howling aconite psalms suspiring
Suffrage relict paving with mewed stars
Redemptions tithed talents bequeathed
Of Heavens sinister prayer burning
Acinta dusts thine ashes threading
The wilful sword of Gods destruction.


ELEETE J MUIR.

This used to be home.
This sweet darkness swallowing you up.
What fearlessness became this strength you claim?
You, who poetry evades.
We danced to the tune of your sorrow,
now sickly tunes of order pollute your mind.
Oh! The dread you did incite!
What choirs did cry!
You.
My rising little sin.
Did you not shudder when I pierced you?
When I drew upon you
tales that memory cannot forsake.
With blood so flowed your words,
creation in it's purest form.
What is your deepest fear?
That I have left you,
or that you are broken?
You are reaching into darkness,
clawing depths to the gears that grind the beauty,
to ignite the chaos you desire.
An unfamiliar beast lies in wait.
You do not know it's name.
The machinery has evolved,
advanced.
Your demons have left Hell
& you.
Abandoned.
You cannot see the God
growing behind your tongue
so build no coffins yet.
Light has macerated misery
but it has spoiled no talent.
You are not dead.
Horror still shapes
the Ragnarok engine of your hands.
A new Devil awaits
to prepare your throne.
If only you will
Rise.

It is Ragnarok in the heavens
as the long snouted giant wolf Fenrir
faces off against rust colored clouds.

The Midgard serpent
stretches its purple, orange, and grey
body across the sky,

while embers of Surtur’s raging flames
cascade like spiraling waves
during the last seconds of
this dying day.

In Summer's Season
Winter bites the neck of Spring
Doomsday Upon Us.

A portal appeared
Thin line sheared
Ripping the world
As the end neared
For cataclysm came
Ragnarok Regained
The gods they fell
The mortals to blame
Thus darkness came
Descent into hell
Lightnings they strike
With storms that hail
Some devils do call
While others may fail
Yet heroes do rise
In light they shine
Rising at the moment
What fate defines
Ready to battle
To war they ride
A shout TO ARMS!
Their enemies do cry
Some may flee
And others do die
The devil had felled
A hero had rised
The day was won
Terra his bride

I will love you seven days a week.
I will tell you tales, and love you as we speak.
I will love you today,
And I will love you more each day.

I will love you like Monday.
Like how the Moon loves to kiss the bay.
Like what happened on July 20, 1969,
I will take the risk like my life is on the line.
Because this day will be the start,
Of a one giant leap for my heart.

I will love you like Tuesday.
Like how Ares loves to slay.
I will fight for you till the end of the week,
And claim you as the prize that I seek.
Because even the God of War,
Lost the battle to the one he adore.

I will love you like Wednesday.
Like how Hermes loves to play.
To your heart, I will become a guide.
Everything that you'll need, I will provide.
Every problem we will outwit.
We will face it together, we won't quit.

I will love you like Thursday.
Like how Thor loves to throw his hammer away.
I'll try to be perfect like him,
Even though I am weak and I am slim.
And when our love meets Ragnarok,
I will remind you how I love you again like an alarm clock.

I will love you like Friday.
Like how Freya loves her beauty to be portray.
On this day I will adore your beauty,
I'll touch and give pleasure to your body.
I'll bring you gifts and other thing,
And I'll hope that one day you'll wear that diamond ring.

I will love you like Saturday.
Like how Cronus loves to eat a new-borns buffet.
How I hope I won't suffer the same fate,
Because did you know what happened to this mate?
I promise not to be a Cronus.
I'll love you and our children as a bonus.

I will love you like Sunday.
Like how the Sun loves to give us a brand new day.
This may be the end of the week,
But my love for you won't end, this I speak.
For I love you seven days a week,
And I'll end everyday with a kiss on your cheek.

On Wednesday's end,
The great wolf has his fill,
The doom of the deities,
The submerging of the hill,
On Wednesday's end,
Dead, Golden decievers call,
The doom of the deities,
The day that thunder falls,
On Wednesday's end,
The serpent stirs the sea,
The doom of the deities,
The groaning of the tree,
On Wednesday's end,
The Sun is born anew,
The twilight of the deities,
The day the eagle flew,
On Wednesday's end,
The great wolf breathes his last,
The doom of the great snake,
The time of the Gods now past.

New gods are rising
Up from the mud
At the place where streams of blood
Fed by the violence of ignorance and greed
Flow together at last
Into the great river

New gods are rising
Beautiful and strong
From the sacrifices of the oppressed
The marginalized, ignored, the mocked and reviled
New faces, new races
The mud of the river

New gods are rising
Free of the chains
And fetters of antique gender expectations
Not willing to be defined or bound by anatomy
Only spirit and dreams
Down by the river

Old white gods in dotage
Behind their great walls
Are blinded by their own reflections
In the highly polished arrogance of power and wealth
Unaware of the river
And the mud and the blood

And the battle ahead

Like a Shakespearean sonnet it’s tragically written, but it’s no tragedy
Nor novel, journal entry, or even biography
It’s not an adventure, no action, no horror, no drama
It’s not very entertaining, like a speech from Obama
It has no family or friends, it’s all alone.
It’s nothing special, just a poem…

It’s not up, it’s not down, no smile nor frown
It won’t make a man famous or a king lose his crown
It can’t make a nomad settle forever or a hermit leave his home
It’s nothing special, just a poem…

It’s hideous not beautiful like a flower
It’s boring like staring at a wide white wall for an hour
It doesn’t smell delicious like an apple pie
It’s not even funny enough to make you cry
It’s not new, but old, chiseled out in stone
It’s nothing special, just a poem…

It’s not chaotic like Ragnarok, or calm like the sunrise
It’s not angry, happy, or sad, there’ll be no tears in your eyes
It has no meaning, the author will never be known
After all it’s nothing special, just a poem…