Fjara.

I’ll never apologize for who I am, I’ll never fell sorry for who I’ve become and sure as Hell I’ll never be ashamed for how I behave. Nor now, not ever. Not when I look around me ans see this fucked up world with its people with their faux appearance.

I am going to breathe fire at anyone who tells me I shouldn’t be the way I am. I am living by my own code. I know what’s right and wrong; for me and by me. Many tell me I am uncommon and a lot more call me ‘psychopath’ (do you, people, know what what that even means?!). Some say I live in a world only for me and made from my own desires and others tell e I am too “on the ground” and live a little more.

I know I am wicked; I know what I do and only I know why I do things this way. For me there is no good or bad, regarding myself; it is about what I want to do and what I don’t want to. They call me a wayward for my beliefs, while some treasure the same gods as I. While my heart belongs to the north and my souls is of a Völva, my mind was forged in the depths of Hell for its rationality with a presence made from Osiris’ bones and Artemis’ eyes. I am the fusion of generations made by war and witchcraft.

If the Old Ways taught me anything in their most basic forms that is to be who I am and to embrace my “abominable” self.

May I drink with Loki tonight in my dreams and in the Great Hall later in the afterlife.

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Seven Widows Weep.

For the Seven Hells there

Are Seven Gods.

For Seven Wishes

Seven widows mourn;

For Seven dead children

A poetess cries.

 From Seven poems

Ask and Embala

Have come to life.

The eyes of the bear

Cry for seven flames.

For Seven humans

Walk the Earth

The fox is praying.

The moon uprising

Listens to the howling wolf.

He cries for his

Seven

Killed cubs

In the cold winter morning;

When Seven suns

Burned down the tree.

For Seven snakes now

Walk the skies.

Seven widows grieve now

The nine worlds that

Used to be.

                     foggy-woods