American Ragnarok

On the hill false Shepherd plays his harp
While the crimson deceiver doth crow
For every strum both flat and sharp
His bleating flock doth file row by row

Heroes awaken from their slumber
Trumped by call of the golden plume
Twelve will they call their sacred number
Spelling out fate for the old gods’ doom

Before the bellows of that old hound
Come the caws of the blood encrusted
Only blood and hate of brothers found
No mercy among them entrusted

The Tree it shudders from root to crown
Decrepit ships sail forth from the east
Maidens tear at Colombia’s gown
On our corpses the Eagle doth feast


About ninefolddragon

I am a self-proclaimed writer, spiritualist, and warrior. My primary writings are poetry and essays that evoke elemental visualization and are written in honor of the sacred feminine.
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One Response to American Ragnarok

  1. Faye says:

    Oh! Not sure if I understand the images but impacting expression. Not even sure if my interpretation is correct…. but surely thought-provoking. Thank you.

    Liked by 1 person

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