A sonnet on the Sirens, whose voices bridge the gap between beauty and the abyss.
Upon the jagged rocks where salt spray clings,
The sisters weave a cord of silver sound.
A melody that pulls at hidden strings,
Until the weary sailor’s heart is bound.
They sing of home, of rest beneath the wave,
Of secrets kept within the coral hall.
A phantom light to lead them to the grave,
Where heavy tides and velvet shadows fall.
The crashing surf is lost to golden notes,
As wooden hulls are splintered on the reef.
The hollow wreckage of the passing boats,
Is all that lingers of their hollow grief.
For beauty is a sharp and hungry thing,
With nothing left but silence when they sing.
The Forge of the World
A sonnet on Yggdrasil, the World Tree of Norse myth that binds the nine realms.
A thousand roots delve deep in frozen ground,
Where ancient wells reflect the spinning stars.
In every leaf, a destiny is found,
Beyond the reach of mortal, petty wars.
The serpent gnaws the base with iron teeth,
While eagles watch the turning of the sky.
There is a world above and one beneath,
Where even gods are born and doomed to die.
From every branch, the golden sap descends,
To heal the wounds of time and bitter frost.
A cycle that begins where ending ends,
Through every soul and every battle lost.
The great ash stands against the coming wind,
By which the fate of every realm is pinned.
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