Nathrangking

Technically, this should be week #8 poem 8. Last week exhaustion shut me down. Though I'm still exhausted this week I will hit my mark of two. That being said here is Week 8 poem #7.

                                                 Imprisoned Anew

 High atop ramparts of crystal my voice flies forth with force unrelenting to all corners of the realm of mortal flesh. The daughter whom I have seen as my truest blood desires not to help me shatter the chains of my lord. My rage boils even as I lash out and bring frost and fright to the ever so fragile subjects who I ought to rule over as supreme master and king. How I wish to tear down my sovereign and his jailer. The horrific and agonizing sight of the throne in the hands of a wind bag and lecher sets my teeth on edge.

From where I am trapped much useless knowledge comes close and becomes my ever present companion. No plot of mine will any of my brood ever dare to share or even begin to consider possible. Cowardly souls hide away behind stone walls which tremble before the fury that I set loose. Laurels are meant to be borne by my head as is the glory that it seems is only  meant for fools. What my immortal soul suffers at the hands of those who know not how or have not the will to crush underfoot the weak tears my flesh and bares my bones.

Clarity as no other comes to mind driving all else from me in a rush as the most raging of waters. Vengeance that I will visit first on my own blood takes a most wonderful shape around me. Blades frozen in a void that deities learn to fear split asunder that which holds me back and I begin my hunt. Ichor is spilled and many bodies fall when my weapons take what is mine without a thought of the weakness of mercy. Aeolus and Khione bleed together and are tossed aside as my steps take me to the foot of the divine mountain.

I clap my hands and tear Zues from his throne on high shaking the very cosmos as my power chills his blood until he has passed into forgotten lore. Complete is my sovereignty the moment that I bend all in subjugation at the base of my throne. Upon my brow is kingship and true power is mine at long last. Visions of all who would stand against me guard me and keep sleep and peace from ever again resting upon my spirit. Though I am Boreas  lord of all that the North winds touch I wonder why I have taken new heavier poisoned shackles for myself?

Here is week 6 Poem #6

                                          Epoch of Metamorphosis

Dawn breaks with an explosion of gold and peach woven by the skillful hands of Aurora which fly across her loom. The whole of existence stirs as a seemingly endless celestial contest begins to take shape. Jove upon his throne vies with his brothers for supremacy as Minerva crosses blades with the Avenger. Tremors wrack the earth and every deity gathers their armies to wage war. Faunus and Diana clash spilling nature’s blood and painting the ground with silver. On high the winds burn while Phoebus clashes with Boreas. Cities are trampled and all of civilization is reduced to tattered swathes of a once vibrant tapestry.

Stark beauty glows in the skies as it is carried across the realm upon a most subtle yet mighty chariot. Rebirth of a new day becomes a nightmare birthed by the Bacchnalian curse cast upon Somnus and held firm by the winged deliverers of vengeance. Lightning boils the oceans and creates molten conflagrations in the depths which do nothing to disturb the fury of the wise one and the master of the fields of war. Minor deities quench the thirst of the parched earth with their meaningless sacrifices. Forests from the earliest times are laid bare. Storms of fire scar the very heavens. Prayers so desperate are unanswered by selfish competitors.

Contrast of great beauty marks the very heights and separates it from the destruction consuming the material plane. Horrors driven by the invisible bearers of poisoned blades and whispered judgements exact even from those who rule terrible prices for their failures. Jupiter falls from his gilded seat into the fires and steam below where he rages  and wrestles with the lords that were exiled below beside the carnage that two have wreaked on any who would stand between them. Libations laid out in the most desperate ways spill without even being noticed or considered. Yews by river banks weep and watch their siblings die. Humanity cowers.

The completion of the artwork that stands majestically and yet smudged by the smoke that rises sends forth a  new song. All of the battles instantly start to wither away and somewhere a balanced scale strikes down the nightmare that has broken out. Amidst the muck and mire of their spirits three kings and two bloodied and exhausted warriors are aflame with a shame which before this day they had never imagined that they could know. Spoiled gifts offered now begin to heal sundered places of refuge. The huntress and the wild lord huddle beneath spilled tears. From the rubble mortals build again as noon is born.