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~ By Courtesy of Others ~
The Kings of Corpse Feasters
The two perched high
on the shoulders of war,
of thought and memory
they are kings.
Black of body
pure in intensity,
circle the world
forever they roam.
To the will of the father
they devote their lives,
to see all Midgaard
and bring back the news.
Messengers, they ride
to the land of men,
with eyes ablaze
nothing left unseen.
Of the feasters of bodies
they are the foremost,
large and mighty
much like their tree.
The eyes none can escape
cold as ice and hot as flame,
one remembers with passion
the other calculates coldly.
Now on my limbs
they will sit,
a gift to the Allfather
his birds may rest.
From me they see
the ways of men,
the rot we've become
bloated corpses ready for feast.
See what I see
hear what I hear,
remember our struggles
interfere not.
Our pain is our own
will is our true strength,
the gods must let us
rise or fall on our own.
Watch not interfere
through these eyes,
we prove our strength
to rise to the shield-roofed hall.
Our wasted bodies
feed the watchers of the world,
continuing to find
worthy protectors for Asgaard.
© Blennerhassette
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