I Miss Home Sometimes.........

I am the vessel for a destruction older than the gods and their first lie. One side of me scorched by rising magma, the other cracked numb under the glacier's bite.

I am the meeting point where steam blinds the eyes of heaven, the son of fire and frost with no middle ground for your compromise.

Your words are wind. Mine have edges that do not dull. The time for talking is finished. The feast of iron has begun. The moon calls the beast under my skin and I answer with a howl that shakes the stars. My pack is the storm, my mother is the dark of the deep woods, and we hunt while the ravens circle overhead.

I am the engine of ruin and the spark that lights it. I will not stop until the last crown melts and the last throne is rubble, because the wolf is at the door and the door is made of paper. The end is not coming. It is already here, and it wears my face.

[A berserker-style prose-poem; a second installment follows in the thread.]