The mundane clicking of the keyboard
is lost to the war-drum symphony
in the spectral halls of Valhalla.
They’re gold-laced, towers of sun and bronze,
with powder walls of blue and cloud,
bristled with spear tips and shield rings.
The Aesir line their phantom guard,
shifting, bouncing their points and edges,
glinting in the celestial sun.
Odin looms atop the hosts,
a chain-mail lighthouse.
His shoulders span the world, his one eye staring down
the one and only moment of oblivion:
a giant wolf, moon-hungry and drooling,
a serpent, world-spun and suffocating,
an army of the dead, led by his own family,
out of a flaming hive,
drawn to their Ragnarök honey.
He is jealous of us
below heaven’s gate
and Sleipnir’s anxious hooves.
Our boring, dewy Midgard.
We follow a flat, uneven mountain range
between our birth and death
small surprises, a few tragedies and comedies.
There is no twilight of the gods
written on the world-tree roots.
He pictures it
as the sword of Surtr spins, cracking, whipping,
setting the sky ablaze in a cyclone
of god-killing fire and spark.
Above, the Valkyries sing,
their angelic voices a hum
as their mounts fly unafraid
an avalanche of long hair,
boots, and blades to meet the undead flame.
Better to have a simple life,
so he dreams.
About the Author
Patrick W. Marsh is a writer from Minneapolis, Minnesota. His work has appeared in Star*Line, Carmina, Horrific Scribblings, Suburban Witchcraft, Skyway Journal, Zoetic Press, and others. He is the author of the Greenland Diaries series, a screenwriter for the 48 Hour Film Project, and co-creator of the Hidden Oaks Podcast. Though he often writes about haunted forests, fleshy warehouses, and possessed hallways, Patrick is a relatively nice guy. He has a dog, a wife, kids, and a particular brand of paper towel he likes to use.
