Jörmungandr’s Embrace

There is something endlessly lonely about grieving

someone who never existed in the first place

except the impenetrable tower of one’s mind

where they could be kept safe, wrapped in champagne

clouds and cherry-kissed smiles. But gone is gone⸻ in a

wisp of rotting sweetness. Two paths exist: The known

and unknown. Tyr’s arm was a phantom limb

far before he decided to offer it to Fenrir, freckled

and scarred with future sacrifice in the name

of blind, unproven prophecy. The end

of the world was written at the beginning.

Ragnarök roaring across a blood smeared sky,

the end of something but not everything;

a new world was Reborn.

(The end is never truly the End.

Like the whisper of someone saying I miss you

as if they are saying I love you. As if they mean it)