Tag: Death

Norse, Poetry

The Children of Loki

The Royal Octopus

Three children born beneath the stars,
Marked by fate and battle scars.
Not monsters, no, but souls denied,
By gods who feared what they’d not tried.

First came Fenrir, wild and bold,
A wolf pup with a heart of gold.
He played with Tyr and chased the light,
But gods grew pale at signs of might.
They fed him lies, they forged a chain,
They bound him fast in fear and shame.
He howled not rage, but loss and grief,
Betrayed by hands that swore relief.

Then Jörmungandr, born of sea,
A serpent child, long, strange, and free.
He coiled through oceans, calm and vast,
No threat, until the verdict passed.
Cast out to depths, alone to grow,
With none to teach, and none to know.
They called him beast, a foe, a blight,
For daring just to be, not fight.

And Hel, the girl with silent grace,
Half in death, and half in place.
They saw her skin, one side so pale,
And called her cursed, and doomed her tale.
They banished her to rule the dead,
A crown of bones upon her head.
But never cruel, she kept the gate,
And held the lost with quiet fate.

Three children not of wrath, but wronged,
By gods whose hearts grew cold and strong.
Who feared the shape of what might be,
And punished them for prophecy.

But time turns slow, and tales return,
And fires rise, and oceans churn.
At Ragnarök, they rise not just
To fight, but to reclaim their trust.

Fenrir runs, the bindings break,
Not just for rage, but for love’s sake.
Jörmungandr coils, the world to brace,
To show the gods what they displaced.
And Hel stands calm as all things end,
The keeper of both foe and friend.

The gods will fall, as all things must,
And learn too late what’s fair and just.
For monsters come from fear, not birth—
And even outcasts can shake the earth.

©️ 2025

Poetry

The Chair Still Rocks

The Royal Octopus

I saw your chair was empty, Gran,
The one you loved beside the fan.
Your knitting’s paused, the yarn undone—
Like stories stopped mid-sentence. Gone.

I whispered in the hallway dim,
Still hoping you’d come back again.
I waited for your humming tune,
The one you sang each afternoon.

They told me you were “gone to sleep,”
That heaven’s skies were wide and deep.
But I can’t find you in the stars—
You always felt so close, not far.

I touched the quilt you made last year,
It smelled like you and made you near.
And though I tried to smile and play,
My laughter felt too far away.

I miss the way you called me “sweet,”
And tucked the blankets round my feet.
I miss the tea, the tales you told,
The way your hands were soft and old.

They say with time the pain will fade,
That love like yours does not degrade.
But I still cry when no one’s near—
And sometimes call, in case you hear.

I set your chair just like before,
Your slippers waiting on the floor.
And though you’re gone, I talk out loud—
I think you’d like that. I feel proud.

Because you taught me how to care,
To find you even when you’re air.
And when I’m big, I’ll tell them too—
That someone never leaves… when you
still feel them rocking in the room,
in morning light
or evening gloom.

©️ 2025

Poetry

A Dance with Death

The Royal Octopus

A poem about time, friendship, and the one chase we never win.

A young man walked on midnight’s breath,
And struck a deal with Lady Death.
She wore a veil of raven thread,
And smiled, “Not yet. But soon,” she said.

He craved the years, the wine, the flame,
To taste the world, to carve his name.
“I’ll give you time,” said she with grace,
“But someday, love, I’ll take my place.”

He danced through wars and fell through love,
Outran the stars and gods above.
Each time he tripped or neared his end,
She’d whisper soft: “Not yet, my friend.”

She toyed with him, a ghostly muse,
With hollow steps in worn-out shoes.
She’d touch his shoulder, draw in close—
Then vanish like a fleeting ghost.

She aged him slow with every chase,
Etched crow’s feet deep upon his face.
In every mirror, shadows stirred,
Her silence louder than a word.

He laughed at first, defied her game,
But years grew cold and none remained.
One twilight, tired beneath the stars,
He met her eyes, and dropped his guard.

“I’ve run,” he said, “and still you came.”
She knelt beside him, spoke his name.
“No shame in rest, in letting go—
You made the most of what you stole.”

And hand in hand, they crossed the hill,
Two friends, at last, both calm and still.
For Death, who waits and gently keeps,
Had come not cruel, but kind—to reap.

©️2025

Poetry

Layers.

The Royal Octopus

She fell in silence, smooth and deep,
A trap of glass where none could weep.
The sky above—a distant call—
She dreamed of it, and climbed the wall.

She cast her thread with trembling care,
One silver line through stagnant air.
The climb began, her limbs unsure—
But hope was strong, and will was pure.

She circled slow, a fragile ring,
Each loop a small imagining.
She paused, she breathed, she spun once more—
Her silk unspooled, her muscles sore.

Around again, and higher still,
A prisoner moved by aching will.
The walls were slick, the curve was steep—
She spun through pain, she climbed through sleep.

Her legs began to quake and drag,
Each loop a burden, each pass a flag.
Her thread grew faint, her eyes grew dry,
Yet always—always—toward the sky.

Humans came. They laughed. They stared.
Some took pictures. None had cared.
She looked at them with pleading grace,
A ghost behind a polished case.

Still spinning—slower now, and thin—
Her body caved beneath her skin.
The silk was gone. The glass was tall.
She gave her last to climb that wall.

She curled beneath her silver thread,
A monument to where she bled.
Her eyes still held the blue above—
She died for sky, for light, for love.

And no one knew what she had tried—
They passed her by, and so she died.

Image by Shoody_Course_6925 via Reddit

2025 ©️

Poetry

Liam and the Lamp

The Royal Octopus

Liam was restless, the sky hung low,
Life was dull, the days moved slow.
Behind his shed, through mud and vine,
He found a lamp with an emerald shine.

He gave it a rub with a shrug, half-bold—
Out rose a shimmer of lavender and gold.
A woman emerged with stardust eyes,
Her voice was soft like lullabies.

“I’m Lyra,” she said, with a wistful sigh,
“A genie of wishes—three, then goodbye.”
“Ask what you will, but choose them wise.
Not all that glitters is truly a prize.”

“First,” said Liam, “I want success—
Fame, fortune, all the rest.”
Poof! In seconds, his name was known,
A world of applause, a glittering throne.

“Second,” he grinned, “make me adored.
Friends by the dozen, fans by the horde!”
And so it was—his phone rang nonstop,
Praise and selfies, he’d reached the top.

But soon came the asks, and the desperate cries:
“Wish for my sister,” “My brother just died.”
“Can you fix the world?” “Make hunger end.”
“Wish for us, Liam—be more than pretend.”

Their voices clung like vines to his name,
Every call was coated in effortless blame.
He’d wanted joy, but now bore their weight—
A million ol’ hands reaching all through his gate.

And so, for his third, he looked to the sky.
Then back at Lyra, with tears in his eye.
“I wish,” he said, “for all this to be done.
No more wishes for me—not for anyone.”

Her smile faintly dimmed. “You mean…?” she asked.
He nodded once. “I wish for your last.”

She staggered back, her light turned cold,
A shimmer of sorrow in silver and gold.
“Liam,” she whispered, “I lived for the giving…
But you’ve wished it away—ending my living.”

Yet, she bowed. As was her vow.
With a final glow, she vanished now.

The lamp turned dull, the silence grew—
And Liam sat in a world he once knew.

Alone with fame, alone with gold,
Alone with a wish far too cold.
And deep in his chest, it softly aches—
The cost of a wish that a kind heart breaks.

©️ 2025

Poetry

The Stages

The Royal Octopus

Beneath the twilight’s dim-lit gaze,
I stumbled upon Death in a shadowed haze.
Cloaked in silence, a figure still,
Its presence burned, a frigid chill.

“No, not yet,” I cried, my voice a storm,
“This cannot be, it feels too warm.
The sun still rises, the world still turns,
Surely, Life’s flame still fiercely burns.”
But Death stood firm, no word it spoke,
Its eyes like mirrors, my hope it broke.

“How dare you come!” my fury roared,
“To snatch the dreams I’ve yet explored.
You thief of time, you cruel deceit,
I’ll rage until your grasp’s defeat!”
But Death stood patient, calm and still,
A shadow bound by fate’s own will

“Please,” I begged, with trembling plea,
“Take my years but leave them free.
Spare those I love, or delay your claim,
I’ll give you gold, I’ll bear the blame.”
Yet Death, unmoved, began to wane,
Its silence sharper than my pain.

A void engulfed me, vast and deep,
A bitter ocean where sorrows creep.
“What’s left for me?” I asked the dark,
“My heart, extinguished, bears no spark.”
And Death, though silent, seemed to sigh,
As stars wept tears across the sky.

Then light emerged, a subtle glow,
A whispered truth I came to know:
“Though Death may come, it does not sever,
For love and memory live forever.”
I reached for Death, no fear, no plea,
And walked with it, at last set free.

Through every stage, I met my end,
But Death, it seems, became my friend.

2025 ©️

Poetry

The Silent Killer

The Royal Octopus

Beneath the sky, so vast, so blue,
She whispers vengeance, cold and true.
No armies march, no cannons roar,
Her quiet fury settles the score.

The rivers rise, a creeping flood,
Turning streets to paths of mud.
The winds, they howl, with spiteful grace,
Tearing apart the human trace.

Her forests burn, a crimson pyre,
Fed by greed and mankind’s fire.
The earth she shakes, her anger deep,
A tremor wakes where cities sleep.

The oceans swell, their waves take hold,
Swallowing shores both young and old.
The ice retreats, her final plea,
As waters drown humanity.

No words she speaks, no threats she cries,
Her silence shames the loudest lies.
For every tree and every stone,
She claims what man would call his own.

We took her gifts, we scarred her face,
We mocked her patience, stole her grace.
Now she’s a shadow, cold and grim,
Her quiet vengeance grows within.

Beware the calm, the lulling peace,
For it’s her rage that will never cease.
A mother scorned, her justice clear—
She’s the silent killer we ought to fear.

2025 ©️

Poetry

Santa and his Shadow

The Royal Octopus

In winter’s chill, when snowflakes fall,
Santa rides with joy to all.
With sleigh and gifts, he lights the night,
Bringing warmth and festive light.

But close behind, in shadow’s veil,
Krampus walks with frost and hail.
His chains they rattle, his breath is cold,
A tale of fright, both fierce and old.

For Santa brings the gifts and cheer,
To those whose hearts are bright and clear.
But Krampus watches, grim and sly,
For naughty ones who cheat and lie.

One with laughter, one with dread,
Together on their paths they tread.
For every joy, a lesson stern,
From kindness given, or harshly earned.

So heed the tale, both sweet and grim,
Of Santa’s warmth and Krampus’ hymn.
For in the season’s magic blend,
Both light and shadow find their end

2024 ©️

Poetry

The Wooden Deception

The Royal Octopus

Beneath Troy’s golden skies, so high,
The city stood, its walls defied.
For ten long years, the Greeks had fought,
But victory’s hand could not be caught.

Then cunning stirred in Odysseus’ mind,
A scheme both daring and unkind.
A horse of wood, colossal, vast,
A gift, a ruse, a shadow cast.

The Greeks feigned flight, their ships withdrew,
Their sails obscured in morning’s hue.
The Trojans cheered, their foes now gone,
And rolled the horse through gates at dawn.

“Behold,” they cried, “a prize of war,
A token left upon our shore!”
With song and dance, the night grew deep,
While death within began to creep.

For hidden in that hollow frame,
The Greeks concealed their vengeful flame.
As silence fell, their trap awoke,
And Troy was doomed with every stroke.

The gates unbarred, the city burned,
The fates of men and gods had turned.
A single ploy, a whispered lie,
And Troy fell ‘neath the starry sky.

Oh, mortal pride, so quick to trust,
So swift to fall, to fade, to dust.
The horse remains, a tale of lore,
A warning carved in myth and war.

2024 ©️

Poetry

Persephone

The Royal Octopus

In meadows vast, where sunlight played,
Among the blooms, the maiden strayed.
Her laughter rang, her feet were bare,
Her golden locks caught in the air.

But from the earth, a shadow rose,
A chariot dark where fire glows.
Hades, lord of the ashen plain,
Came swift to break her life in twain.

A scream, a struggle, petals torn,
The sky wept grief, the world forlorn.
Down to the depths, through veils of night,
She vanished, stolen from the light.

The Underworld, a realm of stone,
A hollow place, cold and alone.
Yet in its heart, a throne stood tall,
A seat of power beneath it all.

At first she wept; she cursed his name,
Bound by a fate that none could tame.
The pomegranate’s ruby stain,
Sealed her bond to his domain.

But as the days in shadow passed,
Her sorrow waned, her fear unmasked.
The silent dead bent to her will,
And in her chest stirred something still.

For she was more than harvest’s child,
More than a girl with spirit wild.
She saw in darkness hidden grace,
A strength to rule, a queen’s embrace.

No longer captive, she would reign,
With iron hand and tender vein.
Beside the king, her power grew,
A goddess born in realms anew.

And when spring called her to the skies,
To mother’s arms and azure ties,
She left behind a kingdom vast,
A part of her forever cast.

For in her heart, two worlds now meet,
A dual soul, both fierce and sweet.
Above, she blooms; below, she’s fire—
A queen fulfilled, her own desire.

2024 ©️