The Valkyrie Portal

The Valkyrie Portal

Valkyrie like fronds of a fern raze taken under black wings
sifting through glass for faces when heaven shatters
three winged tortuous creatures resurrected by disciples
seraphs whose presence blesses the sands
in the lands to the west at the edge of the world
near the now forgotten lake of Avalon
the frigid winds against the old mountains
just before the forgotten desert thirsting for the waters ethereal
if the mountains were to break
the waters canst dare not rush into the sands
for it is the valley of the seraphim
the fire angles that paint each other
with narrow brush held at handles end
they inspect each others' shell with great intrigue
often humming song with great pleasure stricken expression
at whim they fought with anger for brief moments
never causing wound never taking their daggers
each with an orb of light attached to the handle from sheath
a few with with cane atop which sits a glowing sphere
the great mountain rests atop the wickedness
to no other Heimdall approaches Asbru
the bridge of fiery time withheld
Valkyrie walk from each other in large wheels
to open two large doors in the side of a mountain
large enough for castles to pass without collision
to reveal within the mountain stars of the evening sky
through which fly two angels to join the him
they land as the earthen barrier is resealed
two soldiers to confront one is white other like
thus yet the second turns to red of blood
poisoned with wroth and loth
an intent to deliver great quantities of sin
the zeal of monstrosity a red dragon in midst
blood of fire without causticity to caustic flesh
the mending angels feel wealth in punishment
their wounds burn to agony in the presence of the deceiver
their pain drives them to battle with wounds of driven war
the second perfect Valkyrie trusts his brother complacently
and fractured bodies become stricture of the soil
like song in serenade to sulfur blend
beneath the endless skies of whiteness
fraught with sounds of enmity replete of darker storms
an onslaught of aftermath duly to creation
the lines in the sand of sliding toes leather bound
to the agent provocateur enlisted of repletion
subsequent to inconsistent abhorrence
wicked of the wandering nomadic apathy yet resolute
until the poisonous wresting of terror fuels folly
even unto the brother as guest assaults evil reprieve
and many unto the fallen were but low of great
until the sky spoke in the way that only it can
and the sound of pain echoed to boundaries of existence
the air took great offense to life resounding
thoughts multiplied in dementia to spite all thoughts
even then their ideas were forced upon each other
in a solidarity of consciousness trespass upon the Alfather
thus were the angered retching and the wretched writhing
causing the flock to fold and fire's light was cast
onto the red Valkyrie isolated in damnation
it began to spew blood from its lungs and mouth
clasping to fear and striving for less then death
thereupon the floor before pristine judgement
at the sight of cowardice and revolt
the red thing became pallid of vibrancy then black
and cursed its purged soul as whence
but tortured and lament strove to distance from the liquid
at which of shame began a newest cold
and mangled were the wings and strings of angels only one
his brother and the other all could stand
when mercy came in forms of grave disgust
it was blood but that of man reckoned of a tired state
gathered always are winds of fate and summoning
the gate of mountain sky was vanished as the stars sang note
and winds of change scattered not the flank
but the blackened traitor was put to test
dropped from on high with a body of heavy metal
to the darkest expanses of hell and high water
forced to consume other blackened souls to survive erosion

Vacuous

Vacuous

this tale of wiles cannot be placed to a whence

for nothingness was still at war with somethingness 

and was so very truly long ago and the everything was only light

like the deserts of the mind or you soul after a holiday

for to be in this desolation of sorts were I and the other breaths

and the high god of the pagan sort

and we told every story until wise time told us we had told ourselves before then

then we were left to our devices

which at that time was to span moments of silent inventing new increments

but keeping score for others less than ourselves to forget and boast inaccurately

to such the boredom finally came after our hearts which many no longer have

were we, and the gods, and the spirits, and the keeper

and upon one day, or perhaps any other clasp of passing

the high god became bored and sought to make the tacit things

so the souls began to make the colors

and the spirits began to make the scents

and the keeper made notice of these things

while we the breaths made mention of what needed mentioning in our secrets

when we knew we were done we slept and perhaps forgot to forget

and in our efforts made the first dream among many others

and those walked about lesser than us but much more than living

excited became a new notion of the only thing missing to the high god

as quickly as he became ambivalent he became determined to create the wind

the only substance of which had not been made

as for making the breeze the lustrous force that it is today

was well beyond our make

but the elder god sought to sake it for the living

so he made a box of silver only old ones could touch

swiftly planned he did to put much inside to make the wind rescind 

he opened the box and it gasped for air to heal the poison

in doing so it devoured a dream

with such consumption an idea came to the god that more would make the
wind

as our experience had brought us to make our creations

the box did well to try and swallow its lid

but when removed

it consumed the primordial water and ancient soil and the lid closed again

the righteous god moved close to open the harrowing cover

and was sucked into the box of creation

i must admit i laughed a great deal the entirety of waiting

from stifling misconception to the appalling delay

the god eventually hammered and thundered and mortared until the top slid

my friend the god at that point crawled from the side of the box

as if it were much deeper than the appearance

with a fist clenched he fought the accursed vacuum and the clutching lid

and took to his escape with something precious in his grasp

it glowed as we had never seen and as had never been

it began to permeate the environ and soon from contact made the

old soil a new fertile earth, and made the old poisons a new fervent water

the aura could though not be held

and dissipated into the purity of existence

the woes of turmoil sent for throes would never rest assured

but ever after waiting there the lack of wind is soon to be remedied

overpowering expectation the lid held tightly shut

and half of us would not repeal its lock

but our force we doled to more cadence than caliber

to remove the lid and give it to the keeper 

while the earth was pulled into the box

while the water was pulled into the box

while we were pulled into the box

until all had entered

inside the box was many of the dark things that even nothingness fears

and the sight of thunder and the emotion of lighting brightest of fires

and the vexation of the hellish box turned to consume the vacuity

to devour the emptiness that surrounded it of light and magic

still opposite to the depths of the great nothingness

and i suppose at a guess that is ruptured

it certainly consumed all of the known universe 

and sent us all in a blast to rapture what will be that wasn't

the power of windily force annihilated more than half our ranks

and we fled and escaped and evaded

to consume the wit of breadth we moved from it a time greater than had been existence

and evolved our traits as we had forced our fates to lift the lid previously

as then at most is how of many more that died

but a circumstance at best luckily fated by wings 

and they who sings the fiery songs and when the tumult ceased

the wind carried warmth and creased the ghosts of fire

 which burdens life much less than frozen time

Merlin 2:28 “Causerie”

Merlin 2:28 “Causerie”

On the day of spring at the eve of dusk the full moon shines on a burgeoning forest in the April ethereal, water courses shining from the midnight radiance as the frost witch Halle bathes in the flow, her feet on the riverbed she with fingers closed in her open palms gently does her ablution, her blond hair pulled cleanly toward her back. Even unwitting her majesty is forced upon the manna, she cools the ebb and from her the ice moves downstream, with an unkempt promise of deceit her witch sister Lynn of fog approaches the riverbank.

Lynn: “What are you doing?”
Halle: “Come in, we can bathe each other.”
Lynn: “We are sisters…”
Halle: “Cleanliness is next to godliness.”
Lynn: “You were to follow them consistently.”
Halle: “Has the warlock sent you to fetch me?”

Lynn begins walking on the water as if solid as the trail of fog by her feet soon drifts with the current of the stream, a current cold enough to absorb any warmth in the fog.

Lynn: “He has…my agent provocateur has been ousted and I’ll be finishing the anarchy. You shall head to your palace and begin the siege on your lowlands.”
Halle: “Oh good, bloody well time.”

Halle resumes her washing as if unfinished, impatiently Lynn waits, while posing as a specter of the moonlight and keeping watchful.

Halle: “Are you sure, the water is warm?”

Despondent Lynn takes another look at the ice crystals floating over stream from Halle, which appears as diamonds adrift and broken glass as she leaves into the hoarfrost.

Windblast

Windblast

if it were a breath it would have been stolen

where the blasphemous children tarnish words of peace

every sundry glance were eyes of hate and reckoning devils

i had seen the evil coming from a distance

and in a missing moment they have become a flood

surely never do wells and liars come lately but dead minded

and then my skin broke from my bones like paper becoming ash

invisible i am to this world becoming the windswept willow

and the demented pass disinterested but disturbed the undead anger

pardon for peace the interleaved immaculate plague 

incomplete souls and degenerate parsons of malice

i would never visit if it were that i could leave

ever unto the ghosts whom cannot be swayed

never unto the specters that hold no anchor but in nightmares

when the thunder comes it is carried only by sound

like angering mountains and dangerous waves most fatal

even force can make dust of mighty pillars to put through colanders

all unhallowed to the retribution of time

the wilderness of wind can be the forests of war and space

over everything that is over the mortal world and yet more unrequited

similar to share the air with those who think the most unfair

and ominously carrying the Archangels, the Valkyrie of seem

not only winged but with knives to latch the wind for greater speed

after the demons and the flippant rain the mouth of hell has no fury for them

deluge replete a spinners gold and other elements of the light

recourse to run a daydream into a thought and watch the detritus life

weaker than none but circumstance in suspect happened upon a certainty

but in due time the duly raging moments will decay before creation

and before the court of such solitude will wretchedly wither like rags

there is no message before the beginning of the end 

to each the onus operand to the only give without source

Windfall

Windfall 

a burning fog rests on the land,

the old fires are not gone nor lost,

my people are arming themselves in numbers,

desperate to sleep while sick of the old world,

we are royalty among humanity,

we have rights that must endure and privileges to honor them,

and we will protect them,

again we see the coming storm on the fiery horizon,

and the insurrection from enemies within our ranks,

the spoiled children by edict,

the rakish deviants of totalitarian nightmare emotional by choice,

my home gathers breath the way that evil sleeps,

concerned and at peace,

we purge the fever with a drink,

condemning the thorn by pulling it,

keeping our children from the fire,

pulling ourselves from the thieving darkness,

the blind worries without remission,

the sad sorrows without regret,

while the hypocrites serve as stones in the street,

that chaos a word in our language is forever remembered,

and the weeds of the old warring ways are kept at bay,

roots of fascism drink our water,

fire of anarchy breathes our air,

lies of envious fools pass us,

as the moon escapes the tide,

with revolution our dream and your nightmare,

we study the savior sinner fastidiously

Windburn

Windburn 

today i rested w my eyes closed in the autumn sun,

the white light made me cry,

fire burned my face,

energy solace my new sight shaded blue,

when the cold wind came beneath the clouds i couldn't tell if i was crying or dying,

my shadowed soul chilling,

reflection stole the holy light,

by more than darkness nothing is the light,

the breath of future,

lost to endless years of imagination in only a moment,

to sleep w sunset freedom is,

to lie alone is a cold dark wasteland,

in the hedgerows and dead fields,

by the distant forest line where trees hide behind those that sleep,

simply turning restless the windows slid shut,

absent of judgement from abject revolution,

when the chance to find the shade was mistake,

do the clouds come to take away my daydream flight,

as most journeys followers lose,

to be when light makes day a certain hope,

without the callous winds or the biting lies,

i give to you this memory of a day

Resurrection Inquisitor

There are those who want to enslave you, they will try to take this message from you, their consistent lying leaves them ignorant to honesty, they will lie of all things said. This text is an attempt to list their ways for you to countermand, you must use your voice and ask them to tell you the cost of all things, it is said that journalizing requires one to ask a person the same question ten times in as many ways before the true answer is told, this is because they lie.

There is no need in the world for emotion, this is obviously a lie which I write to inspire fear in liberals, the all accepting reckless abandon that is sensationalism, if you can scare them with irony you’re a step closer to sarcastic intellect and have given yourself an opportunity to see if the fretting libertine is competent to walk and chew at the same time. “if it feels good, do it” are the words of eccentrics that die young, not exactly at a ripe old age, and not exactly wise per se as they tell of experience in metaphor, ignoring the very principle of what feels, tactility, would a situation not feel of propriety the danger should be efficient motive to survive, not to indulge in naivety, would that it were we’d all be dead. The psychobabble drivel that intended to relay self-help messages ruin society in many ways by polluting the confidence of many souls, if a person intends to help a person have a complete existence through the pages of a book, how does the message stand to light. This is the shared belief of the atheists who despise theological endeavor, a product of this corrupt system themselves, you can count the times that they despise the despots and cults of personalities of their movements thru all of time immemorial on one hand.

The true evils idolatrize themselves and write their own propaganda, they are alone in their madness and want their lies to be natural and thus surround themselves with crudity, minions who will forget the past and the future of deceit and never mention defeat for it would show light on the misfortune of conflict. Logic cannot prevail to the ignorant, not in an unfortunate sense, but two persons of separate languages cannot easily trade for water and soon kill from blood lust, it is the same that God would not speak our language the atheist feels God has fled the desert without them, the impractical desire for conquest spawns a deep resentment in the shadow of the soul, then and there they try to fill it with domination. To abandon them to logic will only further the fervor, reckon to be thankful and drink the blood of Christ.

We are all capitalists now, if you’re not you’re everything else. The first of many lies is that capitalism is destructive, I’ll not dither on shared responsibility, the fear of industrialism and ownership is unwarranted, private property and human rights rise from eternity, the liars are left to face the law. Imagine the welfare state abandoned to the point of being called a ghost town, owned by a bank it serves no purpose to be hollow and hostile acquisitions occur in crowded climes, was it capitalism that emptied cities or was it parasitism.

The accursed revolutionaries of insurrection or the insurrectionaries of revolution, where the freedom fighter and the terrorist could be the same person in a single moment, would there be order to chaos or chaos to order, hierarchy exists in the violent environs and would a peaceful place be taken by force it would become rigid and dull and surely not remaining ripe. Hierarchy exists in the peaceful patterns of the universe, the tallest plant gets more sunlight and the most desolate creatures are the largest yet unopposed, successful society does not fear the unknown and grows into great amassment without class envy or resentment of wealth.

Try to aggrandize sensationalism and logic is created, axioms slip into the fibers of a species’ existence until they become unwavering traits, the limbs swim and crawl, our humanity lies with our ability to give. Egalitarian aspects of reality exist placarded onto life as much as to the unknown, the traits of fate favor the prepared but the traits of survival cling to the existence of progenitors. Knowingly we plant the larger of two seeds as to sow the favored outcome and give ourselves a better yield, the intrusion of lies will remove the most human of traits, choice. If humanity cannot sow the seeds of prosperity then the weaker will be unnaturally saved. The liar seeks retribution on a fate only they have personified and denied opportunity only provided to the living, and they will hate you.

Imagine a child who doesn’t want to do a new chore, not because of it being daunting but merely because it is not a particular task they are used to doing, that they designate it as beyond the realm of their expertise, now imagine that there are more children than physical people in living existence. This is the gainful plight of communists, desperately they have a solution to doing something and it is always that they not have to do it, entitled to all emotions unadulterated with the feeling that it is imperative for the future of all possible existences. This is the point that conservative will not do, the responsibilities and morals of duty are as useful as an umbrella in a shitstorm, and survival requires permanence to be relayed which requires the standpoint of a republican, which is the establishment they likely seek to destroy. Conservative is only appropriate to win an argument with an idiot, nothing ventured is nothing gained.

Forget everything I’ve just said, don’t because if you do I’ll still not have told you everything, even if it’s a lie. God can communicate to you, but you don’t get to tell Him a single thing that He doesn’t already know, if you do, you’ve gone mad. If you have already forgotten then I have distracted you long enough to offend, and the gambit is stronger now that I can fight for my newly imagined cause and you still don’t know what it is, like taxes these social traps are difficult to remove. In a list of atrocities the places, times, dates, names, and even famous slogans may be remembered, but they all share the same malicious thread, a false narrative can pollute minds where the message of truth can only cure the heart.

A man endlessly drunk, shouting about everything in his mad memory in every town he travels whilst trying to wash everyone’s hair is my metaphor for despotism. In his mind he orders only himself in the solipsist way to suffer the world, anyone against him is arguing a madman, the politics of fear combined with ambition makes an unethical beast unrecognizable to the would-be normal person, a philosophy, mathematical theories underlying monetization. I must add that this is by no means a substitute for emotional relationship advice, for I am also delivering a message, which if you just missed you’re a fool. That one’s a partial truth, therein lies continue, I have no judgment of the audience or thereof philosophical opposition, but yet I force critical judgment. As before, a distraction serves to stall while the liar can scheme against what is not broken, validity heretofore is at stake added to the deception of intellect. Sticks and stones may break my bones but words are almost ironic, ask any wordsmith.