The morning sun will burst my flame alive forever more,
If I can just plunder through this long night's bitter shame.
The sword of Damocles curls from its thread toward my crown,
The blade will give painful rebirth from this ice-scattered reign.
The savior lies bleeding for, from and on mine own hands,
And happenstance says the scars came well before the wounds.
Fortune's wheel twirls above in the moonless sky alone again,
Eos' fire seems so far gone as this heartless dream casts and looms.
And lo in the dark, the Canaanites prowl these grey gardens now.
Their cries echo the war within from my need and stubborn woes.
Only the legend of dawn can frighten the savage hope to my side.
Oh-ho, Chariot strike these vile pangs to ash with your fiery bow.
Ah, a place to put intimate details about my inner workings where anyone can read them, and most likely won't.
Let's get organized. Bits of fiction will be under Epic, verse under Edda, other diatribe will be found under Meandering Mores. Chronological labels will be added as needed.
Munin