Ungrounded, floating on the whispers of a memory,
Secretly kindling the tantrums of one’s victory.
Faint yet chaotic render of pure rage tapping, striking,
A symphony of fire, a sonata of the land burning.
Hel is thy mistress, ruling the maddening underworld,
Leisure in your rotting vessel, a ritual for the undefeated Gods.
Hel, gazing upon your flesh, your tormented world.
Calling upon thy reclining faith from a river following the odds.
Yet still ungrounded, still balancing on the edge of a ripping tapestry.
An emblazing relic digging in your palm, between blood and atrophy,
Runic treasures and charms hidden under your broken armor,
Hailing her Cimmerian name, at last lifting the valiant Hammer.