In Asgard’s halls of shining gold,
Where tales of gods and might are told,
There walks a shadow, ply and sly,
With laughter curled and clever eye.
Not born to throne nor praised in song,
Yet all have known his pull so strong.
The weaver of the web unseen,
The silver tongue, the shifting mien.
Loki, child of frost and flame,
Of shifting face and changing name.
One moment friend, the next a foe,
Where he may lead, none truly know.
He danced through lies like stepping stones,
He broke the peace, he rattled thrones.
Yet in his jest, a hidden cry,
A pain too deep for gods to spy.
A brother once to thunder’s might,
He laughed beside the god of light.
Yet fate and fire would split the thread,
Till bonds of blood and trust were shed.
He wore a grin none could unmask,
A thousand truths behind each task.
Yet who has seen the tear he hides,
When silence falls and rage subsides?
He birthed the wolf, the serpent’s tide,
The death of gods he did not guide.
But still the blame fell on his name,
The trickster caught in fate’s cruel game.
So curse him, praise him, fear his flame,
But know he played a deeper game.
Not just a jester born to fall,
But one who dared to challenge all.
For chaos walks where order sleeps,
And in the dark, the trickster weeps.
A god of masks, of wounds, of lore—
And still, he’ll knock on every door.
© 2025
The Royal Octopus 