Sigurd Poetry Cycle

Wrath’s Edge (Forging of Gram)

Heat from the furnace,

its dragon breath enveloping us.

An edge sharper than all others,

stronger than the fangs of a dragon,

more resilient than the claws.

Still burning metal,

an endless craving for burning blood.

Wrath born from the dragon,

wrath sharpened for the dragon.

Ale of Forgetfulness

I remember the entirety of my legend, its chapters hidden deep within the library of my mind.

Every single detail, from the number of feathers on the birds to the indents on my blade.

I can guide you through the corridors to find the records about Regin and Fafnir,

I can unearth the buried histories as if I was digging in a simple sand pit.

The library never loses a single chapter. Its mind will never forget.

There are even books on every type of drink imaginable,

From small glasses of water to devilish concoctions,

Some potent enough to make a man forget all

That he had ever seen or done in his life.

These burn countless libraries, the

Books catching flame without

The slightest resistance.

Decades of thought,

Slowly being lost

Until there’s

Nothing.

Immortality (Bathing in Fafnir’s Blood)

Submerged in red.

Nothing but red,

its crimson hues,

its iron tinted taste.

Red deeper than

any possible flame.

All there is is red.

Grabbing me tight,

drawing me under,

giving me strength.

A red leaf comes

onto my shoulder,

sticks to my skin,

follows me into red.

One spot of leaf,

one spot in crimson,

a spot of almost-blood.

Drawn from the bath,

I am a new Sigurd.

Redder than a newborn,

but for the single leaf,

its orange-red against

the shade of the blood.

Penance (Eating Fafnir’s Heart)

Tending to the internal flame

still flickering and beating,

I prepare a meal of penance.

Cut down by wrath,

the dragon lies empty,

drained and dissected.

The blood drained in pits

and set aside in goblets.

The heart roasting slowly.

None of it is enough.

None of it can fill the pit,

the endless hunger I feel.

The dragon hoarded so many treasures,

coveted by men the world over,

all for my consumption.

But none of them can satisfy me.

None can give the taste

I forever strive for.

I need to find fear

and devour it whole.

Talking to Birds

            He’s a man playing like a buffoon

            and you’re dancing to his little tune.

He’s over there,

roasting the red heart

over the burning red flame,

the fire in his eyes,

the red glare seeking blood.

            He’ll kill you in your sleep,

            let your blood truly seap.

His neck is smooth,

brighter in the flicker of flames

than any daylight could be.

            Do it now, strike it clean,

            one cleave through that devilish sheen.

The wrath is in my hands,

still red from the dragon.

Wrath born from the dragon,

wrath that slayed the dragon,

wrath to kill before betrayal.

Killing Regin

Come join me by the fire.

Come warm yourself up.

Come sit next to me.

Come try some of the heart.

Come nearer, nearer.

Come and never leave.

One after another,

beckoning worse than a mockingbird.

He casts again and again,

his fisherman words

trying to catch me in his net.

Come tell me about the fight.

Come tell me about the dragon.

Come show me your sword.

Come and stay forever.

I come slowly from behind,

creeping ever slowly,

becoming one with the night.

Wrath grabbed in hand,

fear nowhere to be seen.

Only wrath,

a constant wrath,

burning inside me,

spreading through the earth,

burning even the World Tree.

Fire, fire everywhere,

but none of it hurts.

It only fuels.

Is there something wrong?

Why won’t you come over?

Is it getting hotter?

Leave a man while he schemes,

and you’ll have nothing left.

Cut the hand before it thieves,

and you’ll never have a worry.

Is it getting hotter?

Do you feel that heat?

Why don’t you come here?

Yggdrasil is burning,

the perfect funeral pyre.

Have you found fear?

One movement of the arm,

slicing through the flames

and through the neck.

“I’ll find fear someday,

but not because of you.”

Killing Fafnir

“I ask of thee,

art thou fear?”

No, I am Fafnir.

I am death.

Let the dragon come close,

let its red scales take in the sun,

let the flames well up in its mouth,

let its last moments be stained in red.

Are you not afraid?

“I don’t know what that is.”

Strike a few blows,

deliver wrath straight to the skull.

Red from red,

red to paint my life with.

But still no fear.

Only death.

Drinking Fafnir’s Blood

The human body is mostly liquid,

it leaks water when fighting,

it needs drink to move forward.

An ever replenishing stream.

Dip the goblet into the red,

bring up a well of firey blood.

Refill the mouth.

Let it flow through,

reach every single branch.

Until it cascades you forward.

Fear (Brynhild)

Through fire and flames,

over endless red,

only washing with blood,

finding nothing to drink but blood,

nothing to eat

but for hearts.

No more father.

No more dragon.

Only wrath.

Still no fear.

Out of the womb of violence,

I come into my toddler days,

my days of discovery

and finding new things.

Some will bring joy forever,

some will injure me.

Some will do both.

A woman

father once called it.

It must be fearsome,

for him to have never tamed one.

This thing lying before me,

draped in white robes,

its eyes shut tight

against the obtrusive sun,

it can’t be a woman.

It’s something worse,

something I’ve never seen,

something from the abyss.

It could only be

Fear.