W
WolfOfOdin
Komm, süßer Tod
Reality's a charnel house
And Kadamon's chamber is nearly spent
The sparrows end their chirping
As soul and body are rent.
Come, sweet Death
I mutter in my head
As steel kisses flesh.
Come down sweet angel
And lift me high upon your sword
From this flawed moment let me pass
And bask in His eternal word.
My boots are crunching grit,
Churning the dust of the damned.
The sun shrieks overhead, roaring
Outrage at the sight.
Come, sweet Death
I mutter in my head,
As steel kisses flesh
And I yearn to be undone.
Reality blares brilliant blue
And Gehenna misty gray.
The Guf scrapes the bottom
And the sparrow's chirping stops.
Light from on High
Lances down His eternal Eye
All turns white
Then Red.
Then Silver.
Then back to Brown and Tan.
This is how it ends.
Not with a final victory cry.
With a whimper does it die
Nor a rally to the Breach.
Mewling softly in the dark
A sigh of contention
A gasp of relief
A reaching towards the dying of the Light
Of His eternal grace.
Fire roars below
Ever eternal is Damnation
And Heaven shines above
Blessed is the Kingdom
And from this dream I wake again,
And go about my day.
Hell exists on Earth.
It burns forever in our imperfection
And Heaven dwells here too.
The rising sun of a distant hope
The demons are inside us.
And the Angels are there too.
The world is as we shape it.
And thus is God as well.
In the name of the Father...
In the name of the...
In the name of...
In the name..
Ever are we the Architects of our own Fate.
World Tree
In the field there is
A tree, a tree so high
That none can see,
The eagle that nests upon
Bough and branch, and
Though he shouts and
Though he keens, he
Has only the slightest
Means to deal with him
That feasts below.
And in a field there is
A tree, a tree so deep
That none can see him
Him that feasts below and
Low, in the dark with beasts
And though he is the largest,
His largess is not largest!
For on the dead and pale
Does this one grow so hale
And he has meager means to
Deal with him who shouts and
Keens above so high that none can
See, atop this mighty, ancient tree.
Betwixt them both and in the middle,
Back and forth like hands upon my father's
Fiddle, does he run and does he carry, insult
To injury, words so harsh, words to wound
And he is but the messenger, leading slight
To light and keen to feast and beast to bird
And though this word he carries now, is darker
Far than any he has ever carried, he is the barker
Of the harried, the one who rushes up and down,
To the eagle and the dragon of such renown.
And in a field there is a tree,
So high and deep that non can see
The eagle that perches on bough and
Branch, and though he shouts to he
Who runs, his words are clouts to he
Who funds his belly on the dead, and
Tears the meat like sweet, sweet bread
Their feud, their hate will never end
Till Surt's black fire does descend!
Requiem
The sun's a baleful eye
golden and staring down
at this silent procession.
Golden light spills, syrupy,
across the yellowed grass
and chipped tombstones.
A murder of crows has
descended, black on
black on pale white.
This is your requiem.
This is your funeral dirge.
Sing it well, darling,
you won't get another shot.
The moon is a mournful eye
staring down across viridian and
saffron fields, silver light spilling
like water o'er the fresh turned
soil.
That murder has ascended,
flapping overcoat wings to
the nearest bar, to drown
their sorrows in whiskey and
wine.
This is your requiem.
This is your funeral dirge.
Sing it well, darling,
you won't get another shot.
There's fighting now.
Over your belongings,
your family and friends
turned to snakes and rabbits.
Who could have thought it?
So kind in life, a glue
that held the cracks together.
And now it all falls to tatters,
as things often do in these
troubled times.
That was your requiem.
That was your funeral dirge.
You sang it well, darling.
Your voice rang out clear
and high amongst the shrieking
and cawing of the crows and ravens.
A comfort before the last gasp.
A kiss before your eyes close
that one last time.
A hand reaching towards the
dying light of an angry sun.
That was your requiem.
A song sung to lay to rest,
those angry thoughts and feelings.
That was your funeral dirge.
A song sung in mournful harmony
to mark your passing.
You sang so beautifuly.
Your carmine lips parted in sweet
melody, drowning out the hissing
and mewling of those who loved you
best of all.
You had your shot.
You didn't blow it.
You made a mockery of all
thier lies and deciet.
Too bad they won't miss you much.
Reality's a charnel house
And Kadamon's chamber is nearly spent
The sparrows end their chirping
As soul and body are rent.
Come, sweet Death
I mutter in my head
As steel kisses flesh.
Come down sweet angel
And lift me high upon your sword
From this flawed moment let me pass
And bask in His eternal word.
My boots are crunching grit,
Churning the dust of the damned.
The sun shrieks overhead, roaring
Outrage at the sight.
Come, sweet Death
I mutter in my head,
As steel kisses flesh
And I yearn to be undone.
Reality blares brilliant blue
And Gehenna misty gray.
The Guf scrapes the bottom
And the sparrow's chirping stops.
Light from on High
Lances down His eternal Eye
All turns white
Then Red.
Then Silver.
Then back to Brown and Tan.
This is how it ends.
Not with a final victory cry.
With a whimper does it die
Nor a rally to the Breach.
Mewling softly in the dark
A sigh of contention
A gasp of relief
A reaching towards the dying of the Light
Of His eternal grace.
Fire roars below
Ever eternal is Damnation
And Heaven shines above
Blessed is the Kingdom
And from this dream I wake again,
And go about my day.
Hell exists on Earth.
It burns forever in our imperfection
And Heaven dwells here too.
The rising sun of a distant hope
The demons are inside us.
And the Angels are there too.
The world is as we shape it.
And thus is God as well.
In the name of the Father...
In the name of the...
In the name of...
In the name..
Ever are we the Architects of our own Fate.
World Tree
In the field there is
A tree, a tree so high
That none can see,
The eagle that nests upon
Bough and branch, and
Though he shouts and
Though he keens, he
Has only the slightest
Means to deal with him
That feasts below.
And in a field there is
A tree, a tree so deep
That none can see him
Him that feasts below and
Low, in the dark with beasts
And though he is the largest,
His largess is not largest!
For on the dead and pale
Does this one grow so hale
And he has meager means to
Deal with him who shouts and
Keens above so high that none can
See, atop this mighty, ancient tree.
Betwixt them both and in the middle,
Back and forth like hands upon my father's
Fiddle, does he run and does he carry, insult
To injury, words so harsh, words to wound
And he is but the messenger, leading slight
To light and keen to feast and beast to bird
And though this word he carries now, is darker
Far than any he has ever carried, he is the barker
Of the harried, the one who rushes up and down,
To the eagle and the dragon of such renown.
And in a field there is a tree,
So high and deep that non can see
The eagle that perches on bough and
Branch, and though he shouts to he
Who runs, his words are clouts to he
Who funds his belly on the dead, and
Tears the meat like sweet, sweet bread
Their feud, their hate will never end
Till Surt's black fire does descend!
Requiem
The sun's a baleful eye
golden and staring down
at this silent procession.
Golden light spills, syrupy,
across the yellowed grass
and chipped tombstones.
A murder of crows has
descended, black on
black on pale white.
This is your requiem.
This is your funeral dirge.
Sing it well, darling,
you won't get another shot.
The moon is a mournful eye
staring down across viridian and
saffron fields, silver light spilling
like water o'er the fresh turned
soil.
That murder has ascended,
flapping overcoat wings to
the nearest bar, to drown
their sorrows in whiskey and
wine.
This is your requiem.
This is your funeral dirge.
Sing it well, darling,
you won't get another shot.
There's fighting now.
Over your belongings,
your family and friends
turned to snakes and rabbits.
Who could have thought it?
So kind in life, a glue
that held the cracks together.
And now it all falls to tatters,
as things often do in these
troubled times.
That was your requiem.
That was your funeral dirge.
You sang it well, darling.
Your voice rang out clear
and high amongst the shrieking
and cawing of the crows and ravens.
A comfort before the last gasp.
A kiss before your eyes close
that one last time.
A hand reaching towards the
dying light of an angry sun.
That was your requiem.
A song sung to lay to rest,
those angry thoughts and feelings.
That was your funeral dirge.
A song sung in mournful harmony
to mark your passing.
You sang so beautifuly.
Your carmine lips parted in sweet
melody, drowning out the hissing
and mewling of those who loved you
best of all.
You had your shot.
You didn't blow it.
You made a mockery of all
thier lies and deciet.
Too bad they won't miss you much.