The Poetry Marathon

The warrior lays upon the field of battle,

his life slipping away.

As the world dims and his day ebbs,

he hopes toes the Valkyrie.

He prays to the All-Father.

Odin is wise.

Odin is just.

The warrior prays to see the Valkyrie.

To live free.

To be brave.

To die in the field, the earth no grave.

These were his wants.

Now, at the close of day,

he prays it was not in vain.

For worse than death are the realms of Helheim.

If Odin is wise,

if Odin is just,

he will see the Valkyrie.

As the last light dies,

the air begins to shift,

the sound of wings are on the wind.

Ravens or winged warrior maidens,

he cannot see,

Still, he prays to see the Valkyrie.

The Hammer calls to me.

It sings my name and great deeds to come.

The one who wields might Mjöllnir will shake the world.

Enemies will fall.

Allies will rise.

All that was once wrong will be made right.

A king will rise.

A tyrant will fall.

All I need do, is test my worth,

lift the Hammer,

let my reign begin.

These are the whispers of mighty Mjöllnir,

as it calls from its resting place in secret.

The power of a god,

the wisdom of the ages,

a trap to cleave the soul.

Were I whole, perhaps I could try,

but this man is flawed,

he cannot be free.

Only the worthy may wield the power.

Alas, none are so.

Yet, the song sings on.

The death of Hope is not the end.

Empires rise,

but they also fall.

A man must endure,

even when Hope dies.

The end of Hope will not be his end.

For there are things that burn brighter,

desires that cut deeper,

needs that gnaw at the bone and rend the sinew.

In those times of trial and suffering,

a man must endure.

Endure to the end.

Endure to the last.

Win or fail,

gain or loose,

live or die,

a man must endure.

For one day,

through the dark,

through the death,

Hope will burn bright again.

And thus our journey beings.

We thrust our ships into the waves,

braving the wild unknown.

Fists raised high in defiance of the storm,

Thor shouts his pleasure on the rising gale.

Our offerings to the All-Father are many,

his crows guide our way.

The voyage is long.

The ending unsure.

Yet, on we strain.

Should we end in death or glory?

Only Odin can see.

Our end is not known,

the glory is the voyage,

and glorious battle.

To return home with treasures piled high,

or to wake in Valhalla

to feast in the All-Father’s mighty halls forever.

Glory awaits!

Up sails!

Out oars!

Let us dance with the coming storm,

our enemies must needs know our wrath.