#yggdrasil
He lives where no god dares linger—
the strip of bark between sky and root,
where truth and chaos trade whispers
no prayer can survive.
A streak of fur,
a flash of laughter,
a rebel-tail flicking at eternity.
He kneels to no throne,
bows to no rune,
fears no serpent,
and carries no banner
but his own pulse.
Up the trunk,
down the trunk,
he runs his outlaw orbit—
past the eagle’s cold wisdom,
past Nidhogg’s endless hunger,
unbothered by the wars
that crush the worlds he crosses.
He is not hero,
not villain,
not myth.
He is the only one
who owes Yggdrasil nothing.
The gods will fall.
The giants will fall.
The worlds will burn.
But he—
he will still be running,
tail high,
laughing through the smoke,
free long after heaven forgets its name.
And maybe freedom
was never in the halls of Asgard
or the depths of Hel—
maybe it lived all along
in the small, bright creature
who never asked for fate,
and never accepted chains.
Call him Ratatosk.
Call him chaos.
Call him truth on tiny claws.
But know this:
No god was ever as free
as the squirrel
who ran where he chose.
Nov 30, 2025
Nov 30, 2025 at 4:58 AM UTC
A storm descends upon Iceland, a howling beast unleashed. Roaring winds claw at the land, ancient stones tremble. Blustering fury whips across the frozen plains, a white whirlwind. Tempestuous waves crash against the cliffs, a raging titan's fist. A squall carries whispers of Jötunheimr, the giants' frozen realm. The blast of winter's breath chills to the bone, a frost giant's sigh. Gale-force winds tear through valleys, a chorus of the ****** The sea roils, a cauldron of wrath, stirred by unseen hands. Where the land ends, the ocean begins, a battleground of elements. Jagged lightning splits the sky, a god's angry eye. Frost-covered trees groan beneath the weight, their branches like skeletal arms. The raw power of nature is unleashed, a spectacle of destruction. Wrath pours forth from the heavens, a torrent of icy daggers. In this winter's grip, time falters, caught in the storm's embrace. One strains to hear the echoes of Odin's voice in the wind's howl. The spirits of old stir, awakened by the tempest's fury.
Snowflakes dance a frenzied jig, weaving patterns on the frozen air. The mountains bow before the storm's might, humbled giants. Icicles hang like the teeth of a monstrous beast, ready to strike. Each raindrop a tear shed by the sky, a lament for the land. The world is shrouded in white, a canvas of chaos and despair. In the heart of the storm, whispers linger, tales of forgotten ages. Memories of warmth fade, like embers in the face of the blizzard. Yet, even in this chaos, a fierce beauty resides, a primal strength. The light of resilience flickers in distant homes, a beacon in the dark. Tales of giants and gods are shared, binding hearts against the storm. The warmth of the hearth beckons, a refuge from the raging world. Those who brave the tempest wait, their spirits unbroken.
For storms, like the gods themselves, are bound by time. The darkest night yields to the dawn's gentle kiss. Silence returns to the ravaged coast, a fragile peace descends. The wrath subsides, spent, leaving behind a quiet strength. Nature breathes a sigh, a slow release from winter's grip. The old gods watch from Asgard, their wisdom etched in stone. For all storms, however fierce, must eventually pass. Echoes remain, reminders of the power that sleeps within. The world turns once more, beneath a sky that knows both fury and calm. The land remembers, the storm's mark etched into its soul. From the heart of winter, The Howling of Giants echoes still.
Feb 14, 2025
Feb 14, 2025 at 1:25 PM UTC
Exhaustion and cold is what I feel
As I climb the tree called Yggdrasil
From Midgard to Asgard, here I go
To visit Odin and learn what he knows
A prophecy of future that’s about to be
Covered in a shroud through which I cannot see
Apr 22, 2021
Apr 22, 2021 at 8:43 AM UTC
I had a dream, yesterday, 3:33 in the morning.
The witches — they play with me — with my mind.
By the river that flows beneath the ash on an island in the sky.
They take me to a place that I have sought but can not find.
Where a river flows beneath the ash on an island in the sky.
They hang me from the tree, stick blades into my side. My blood — it fills the well until all the secrets rise.
Until all unknown I find by the river that flows beneath the ash on an island in the sky.
Feb 10, 2020
Feb 10, 2020 at 8:59 AM UTC
I know that I hung on a windy tree,
cross
Nine long nights.
Hanukkah, Christmas, Saturnalia
Wounded with a spear, dedicated to Odin,
Longinus
Myself to myself...
Abandoned by God
On that tree of which no man knows
The Tree of Knowledge
from where it's roots run.
Laws by mankind
No bread did they give me nor drink from a horn,
Suffering, no mercy
I arose with the Word,
Ascension
and came back down to them.
Resurrection *
Feb 7, 2018
Feb 7, 2018 at 2:45 PM UTC
I am not a razor blade.
I am the sap in the twigs of the Yggdrasil,
the essence of creation.
I am a sensation,
felt by those troubled hearts that long for the *****
I am a windowsill.
I am the iron will
of those who form our silent nation.
I am the soft parade.
But I am not a razor blade.
I am not the blood that taints the ground
where family members fell.
I am not the coal that fuels the fire.
I am not a sense of ire,
corrupting the minds of all around.
I am not the gates of hell.
I am not a victory bell,
whose ring announces raw desire.
I am not a snarling hound,
and I am not a razor blade.
Dec 6, 2017
Dec 6, 2017 at 11:51 PM UTC
Every tree has its time;
Every tree, with its every root, has its rings,
Treasures kept in the stories they tell,
History written on its paper leaves.
Kind branches reach around me,
Breathing my breath,
Kissing my lungs from within,
With food for fire;
Its greenery grows,
Seconds gathering layers,
Becoming minutes,
And months, and eons;
Twigs become branches,
Become trunks.
The tree is bending slowly over the ages,
To the will of the winds, so swift and passing;
The roots are weaving through the soil,
Searching for moisture beneath the earth,
Digging deep past the soft sand to the stone below,
Laying its blankets on the bedrock.
It makes no sound,
But breathes nonetheless;
Children climb its branches,
Overwhelmed by the mystery,
That something so big,
Came from something so small,
That something so deep could reach so tall;
With hands in the homes of the bird and the worm,
They are the stitches holding the earth and sky.
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 5:22 PM UTC
Nine realms, stood still
Connected by the tree of life
Or as known to the mortals
By the name of Yggdrasil
In the kingdom of the thunderer
Deep beneath the shadows
Standing still at the heaven of the goddess
Gazed by the half-brother
Yggdrasil, or the tree of life
So be it
A mythological expression of life
That will hold on forever
|AB|
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 11:06 PM UTC