I: The Hammering
The mountain looms in the clouds above.
Although of the earth, it stands with
the gods. It was so easy to stare at screen
while all outside was in vibrant green.
So I fed the mind while body withered away.
Now I put one foot before the other and a
journey begins. The hammering of my heart,
the great flesh anvil. The same redfire heart
with which this life is forged thunders with the
thrill of the unknown path—Thor’s hammer
pounding against my chest. The terror that
succeeds the shapes/Surrounding in the
forest mist./The air that fills with mythic
taste/Which binds to me from heart to fist.
And when I re-emerge and leave the
fog with the trees the thoughts I’ve won are
seared to me forevermore. The hammering of
my heart, the great flesh anvil. The same
redfire heart on which all myth is born flares at
the distant scent of laurel wreaths, heaves at
the sight of a newfound path—Lugh’s fire
roaring within my chest.
II: Vernal Rains
Here sits our hundred ‘lectric years in the
shadow of chthonic millennia. Is this progress?
As we sit our waking hours in worship at diode
altars. Diodes only displace darkness; they
never illuminate. You! who would choose the
dark so the sun might burn even brighter as it
soars. You! who would lose the brightness of
the diode to regain the night and its lore. Your
season is nigh. I can feel it on the wind. I can
smell the chthonic climes as the vernal rains
begin. You! who would spend waking hours
with life immense in passion, pulse, and power.
You! who would walk through hexadecimal
thunder with the will of the advancing hunter.
Your season is nigh. I can feel it on the wind. I
can smell the chthonic climes as the vernal
rains begin. “Every age has them. Every age has those
who learn to thrive like sovereigns. Who walk each step
with the fire of life, aware some days burn brighter than
others. Who learn the landscape of the time. Its hills, its
valleys. Who learn to navigate it with precision. With
passion. With pulse. With immensity of spirit.”
III: Another Journey Begins
I walk the banks of the stream of electric
thought. I cross to the warmth of where
I once was. I look down to see a sixfold
flame in hand. Sing me the dark songs
of Chthonia. Sing life immense in passion
and pulse.
I am the snow that falls: incessant, relentless, boundless.
I am the rain that whips: raging, cleansing, cool.
I am the sun that burns: awakened and scatt’ring the clouds.
I am the heart that heaves: renewed, thundering.
Sing me the dark songs of Chthonia. Sing me the song
of Metachthonia. Sing me life immense in
passion and pulse.
I am the river that swells: incessant, relentless, boundless.
I am the dam that bursts: raging, cleansing, cool.
I am the stride ahead. I am the journey that begins.
You! spiritwalker, igniter of the sixfold flame—you!
who breathe the essence of fire and exhale the
chant of life. You! Who rend the earth and
snow beneath your feet as you hurl yourself
through endless miles of trails—to the summit
of your pursuits. In mist we walk through the
lands of Metachthonia. From mist we emerge
and build the fires of old Chthonia.
And the fires burn bright,
All across the earth,
For any who wish to find them.
For any who wish to find them.
For the fires burn bright,
All across the earth.
One foot before the other,
And another journey begins.
In mist we walk, we sovereigns of old Chthonia.
From mist we emerge, crowned sovereigns
of Metachthonia. Rule on into the dusk.
