The Call of Midgard
Human bones are not made for dozens of wet and misty days.
Skin and nails pale and fade before the pallid greys.
Humidity spins slowly cobwebs inside joints and clots tissues of muscles.
We are almost flooded by watery blood.
Flushed are the sun elements, out of our system.
The dreary steel washed days
Make you feel like things slipping from your hands as fish reclaiming the waters
While your thoughts still hang on threads, tackled by hope.
Will we sink deeper into the deep?
Will we be sunk Atlantis in no time?
One big chunk of soil being sucked up by the ancient serpent?
Human sins washed away in legions?
We lost the tree of life long before winter solstice.
Midwinter breaking the wings of prime.
What kind of apples could possibly grow now since the buds were shed in tears?
The leaven of malice was done before our time, will ever be,
Epitomized by uprooted trees scattered on the land.
No more apples in the west. The serpent went east of Eden.
9th March 2014
©By Andrea Connolly