We are snakes on tree bark,
blaming our scales for corruption.

Along the arrowing
Tree Spear,
we hung,
hooks cleaving our spine
into dusty ash.

A bone stew from which
a new seed spurts.

Rooted wings
swirling towards water,
falls whirling around its well,
its core, its self.

Lost in time crawling a bransch,
sun and moon have their dance.
A pining needle in trance
from the cone’s spiral.

Shells and hills chisel into
sandy boneyards, stone graves.
Writings in sand crumble.

Song of crows taunts the
hurled spear,
wounded in time
it pierces its handler.

Deadly poison,
but no one dead.
Deadly wounded,
a newly wed.

The reaper sows his seed,
a new gown in plead.
A fallen body.
Scales on scale.

A new serpent slithers
the hurled spear,
the tree rider.

Heart twined in roots and leaf.
Forever bound by eerie eyes
to witness its murky rise,
in hatched eggs,
along birded nests.

It eats the yoke,
in a mindless matter.
Knots its rope along its
fattered lingering throat.

A tongue calling in false tunes,
blinded from its bleeding heart runes.
It withers and dies.
The eternal tree rider,
the ghostly spear fighter.

This is the ray of Ragnarök,
the day of reckoning,
where the sea serpent
boils its golden egg
in Thor’s crackling thunder,
coils around the coals,
its scales a nest for
new wings to flutter.

The cacoon that shields and
wields the ancient new beings.