Hymn to Fenrir
by Elizabeth Vongvisith
Hail Loki's wolf‑son, mightiest of
sorrows,
who would devour all, light and dark,
with gleaming razors and hot breath,
a never‑ending feast of spilled blood,
shining guts, torn and rent flesh
there at the threshold of madness.
Hail, child of the Witch Queen,
wildest son of the Iron Wood,
blood‑tinged, red‑eyed, pain‑driven beast
bound fast and wyrd‑wrapped in rage,
as tears roil around you in a great salt sea
there on the underside of the subconscious.
Hail to you who are chaos uncontrollable,
without compromise, without shame,
fear's ending and love's devourer,
biding your time until time's end,
silent in shadows, merciless in patience,
there at the borders of the underworld.
Hail to Fenrir, he who exists
at the terminus of the senses,
waiting, waiting for the worlds to crumble,
for the rejoicing in destruction
and the shattered spear and sword,
there at the ending of all things.