Völva

 

 

( ( ( POV: i too think it's tonedeaf when people don't hear me, just coming from a different subject/object lens 🎶 ) ) )

alas, a curse and a blessing, so much like words, to walk in so many different worlds, to see so many theories... critiques come and go, like bloodthirst... to see the ocean waves wash over the erosion of our soil, a decomposing precipice collapsed into the sea, blood of royalty spilled down beside the blood of loyalty... the first, the last. a foil to your parry, an invitation to your soul. for i have seen so many things, seen them come and go, and i maintained a towering precipice, a precipice of my own, watched it topple down so long ago now, it seems, it seemed to fall forever, forever, ever more, until ending never came, and i began again, and now the waves have become me, i am become them, i ebb, i flow, and i begin again.

 

Völva

 lucifer’s final trick was to remind you that the devil doesn’t exist... only what is inside you... what is right—what is left? both hands, both feet, 360 degrees, a circle, 360 degrees, a sphere, both eyes, both ears, flared nostrils, a forked tongue, branching off like a tree, but then again there is only one (and who could blame you, for seeking the truth... who could blame you, for laying where you’ve fallen, for lying as you do?). who will save us, is it me, or is it you? all of creation, is it me, or is it you? priest and priestess, each keepers of a piece of the truth. god and goddess, each guardians of a UniVerse, incomplete without me or you. on this schism life hangs in the balance, our pride disguised by the massacre of ideas and ideals...an aeon upon aeons. ideas with names, faces, blood drained from their veins, a legacy fades into the bloodsoaked soil salted by our tears, but Earth she keeps our spirits dear to her, near to her, memories just beneath the surface, threaded back into our lineage, our language, our wyrd, our word, fatal fires still burning on ash and soot, nothing to sustain us, flames licking our faces, as the reborn return to earth, smoke still billowing from our funeral robes, our eyes parched and clouded, as those clouds pass over the mind, blackening. nothing left, null. a thread snipped, Nina, Decima, this mortal fate, so strange... how somewhere a loom is being woven, a womb...home to new life. and in spite of our schism, a life hangs in the balance, between two sides of the same coin: death, and life. left and right. two hands, both mine. 10 fingers, counting to 10 toes, 2 became 1 when i was born, alone, and then there were 3... our fingers interweave, palms meeting... heartbeats... thoughts dancing aloud in the rhythm of time. a prime meridian, as we lay upon ley lines. we, the architects of freedom—we the architects of oppression. control our bodies, control our minds; who are they that live inside us? lived... the nature of the beast... panopticons, as far as the eye can see, an icon of our panic if you opt to see it in ion’s form, or an optical illusion. is pan your liberator, brave heart? your enslaver? everything; nothing; a concrete jungle, or a forest? both; neither; either/or? pieces of pais, país, páis, pax, in passing, we rest in peace, a pact made in passion is passed on in passing, this passage, path, pathology, this verse, versa, versus… the light we bear, the light we brought, is a gift we gift unto the darkness. our lineage a curse, and a blessing we bear, like lines drawn in the sand… like words uttered from our lips, only to disappear in time, the sound of rhyme, reason, reverberates still with the proverbial verbs of our being, doing