Somewhere in the Arctic wilderness The mist rises like a grey shroud Winter winds whisper words That get stuck in the snow Which falls thick and fast Covering the ground in A blanket of pristine peace And when the sunlight Creeps through the cracks Of the conifer leaves My mind strays to Icarus And I wonder if I am flying Close, too close to a path From which there can Never be a portal to the past.
Somewhere in this bleak midwinter There lies a bullet with my name Inscribed upon it in dried blood The bullet glides through the air Like a feather I am meant to catch And my mind strays to Epona As the horse I am astride upon Races across the meadow Like the wind, its footsteps Echoing past the forest as I Try to cheat death with nothing Except a broken sword and weakening faith But with the advent of the night The voice of a Valkyrie reaches my ears And I realize the futility of escape The inevitablity of death dawns on me The stars shine down as I read The inscription on the bullet: "Death becomes her. Death becomes me."
Icarus is a figure in Greek mythology who rode too close to the sun, and as a result his wings melted away and he fell to his death in the sea.
Valkyries are female figures in Norse mythology who decide whether warriors shall die in battle or survive. The literal translation is "chooser of the slain".
Epona is the protector of horses in Gaelic Roman religion, and the name literally translates to "divine mare".
It was really an exhilarating surprise @writersnetwork ....thanks a ton for the very kind repost ❤️
F U N E R A L
raindrops are stuck on my window glass,
and some are still rolling off the roof.
on a grey-toned day, no birds sing on my broken walls, and rusted gate. cars cross carrying rings of light on their heads, outside yet, people cover themselves in dark coats.
papers lie empty, losing their feels, drying up, while many torn out and crumbled in frustration.
I wide open the windows to wipe the poignant silence inside my room. frosty winds crash in the void, turning back the leaves of my book.
the nostalgia leaks, drenching my mind spilling a clear tear off my sooty eyes.
I remember the day, you held my hands out in rain, said you'll stay with me forever. your clothes soaked in words and promises. maybe, you were the Poetry, eternal.
I used to dream with you, on my insomniac nights and we sat together on white sheets. you told me stories about the mystical worlds, and I drew you on my heart with ink.
but the time, corrugated me a man, cold and numb and you kept blushing, but with frailer hues, and succumbed. that tattoo on my heart ached, one cabalistic day when you closed your eyes, in your grave.
it's been a year since your funeral, and I haven't felt any season for a long time. is the scent of burning wood covering the sky? or maybe you're still alive inside my mind?
I step out in the ground, to see the rainbow between clouds of grief, blooming like a wildflower. looks like they're made with pieces of your soul, born out of your beautiful colours.
so I pick some fresh flowers from my garden to keep 'em inside the book, your graveyard.
//For me you were the poetry. And still I can feel you everywhere//