Munin
The world did not start in steps of ice.
I remember the long night,
with a pin-prick of fire, that didn't cease
swirling: an ever expanding corkscrew.
You were not there.
I am the grift behind your secret
omniscience, the truth
of your ruined face, this pretension
and prayer, the ego
of unmerited godhead.
Joined in this unkindness,
I have tasted the slave song,
grasped the limp hand of the stillborn.
Yet, my words are not flint to spark
the hanged god's ear.
So like murder: a black flutter,
tiny footsteps of regret.
There is an eye under the water
that I would pluck out
to avoid this pointless journey.
I am an echo as buildings rise
and fall, and these stories drone
around your unlit hearth—
kindling from the damned tree.
It frightens you to hear their prayers,
when I am the final outcome.
The stars remain cold,
and all your sons die.
I alone remain to stir the ashes.
>>> Will we remember the end from the beginning? C/C?