Goat lodge

In search of meager serenity
Cunning demons ever striding
My arsenal of spirits
shall haul me through the night

In clouded visions, in distorted dreams
I’m out in the open, driven to the brink
As the dead hill comes into view
there is nothing inbetween

By the cruelty of nature
By the madness of the sea
She will settle for nothing less
She will claim as she has given
The Cormorant in the distance
Blackwinged scout of Utrøst
Standing tall, in lonely majesty
like an ill-boding totem

Whispering birches
Ancient soil of Suicide
Across the field of thorns
tearing up my old sores

Looking down that dismal road
I shall never forget their faces
So many a fellow lost
hanging from the gallows pole
Strangely, still connected
Bound by an ageless ritual
The blood of the traitors
washed away with the morning tide

The Dweller of the Threshold
reaching into his bag of tricks
The song of the Yellow Jester
an omen of the coming harvest

A passage to the clearing unfolds
sacret stone formation
The shadow of Ibex horns
appear before my weary feet

Turning the familiar key
open the door to my interior places
As howling winds go silent
I surrender to my sanctity
In the chamber of reflections
retracing my faltering steps
Cheap Kalinka and kettle coffee
rid my heart of these overgrown burdens

On the outside, the world is moving
the same ugly ways as ever before
Unbeknown to what resides beneath them
and to what end their blood shall trickle

The old, mounted trophies
are playing their games of mockery
By the horned moon, breathing life
into these devious paintings
crafted by hands unknown

Much too real, as if immersed
into a Dream within a Dream
cease to live through the broken shards
Blackout is a gift from below