Ask Where Cometh the Storm

You ask where cometh the storm that brooding sits within this Byronesque breast, and lovely, I say, I say unto you my Gods are Gods of Thunder and Might, Gods of Wild Wind and Blitzkrieg, Gods of Love So Strange and Potent-Fierce they birth the seed of storm within us all who do them toast and honor. It is but wind seeking return to wind, sunburst seek ascent to Sol, and thunder seeking recoil to its silver-malleted electron-lusty cloud-clamoring lord! These are ancient, beyond-the-bounds-of-the-city Gods! They lead on the train, the endless battle-hoards, the long-line swirling legions of livid spirits, gusty, and lust-filled to fertilize the plains made desolate by over-domestication. I seem citizen, you see but a body, but beloved, within the cloister of these tissues train eager spirals and fierce exultations given but mere loan from Gods who long to see their art given good craze and blazen iteration in an uplift of mad and desperate surprise! For we are the scions of their sublime lineage of night-crafted lunacy and monster-milling molding in the screaming labor of earth's olden days ; and they love to see what imperfect forgings we stumbling make and offer up on altars, all to please them. They have the melee's elemental love-light within, and with angry, benevolent, wit-crafted hands they mold against the storm of being while yet keeping that storm's life alive in the bent and twisted art that, now coiling and climbing like the vine's serpentine foilage, whispers subtle and crafty beauty in the silence after sunset descends. You may now see, standing full and revelation before thee, dear, but a fit in flesh, a great coded spasm given drive and rifled by the strong, mysterious arms of divine giant-killers! I am their oh-so-lowly Midgard kin, an up-and-coming, promising young brat of beauty brooding deep to catch the currents' slip that slides so quickly through my inner being. I'm a bear-skin wearing heath-and-briar priest lodged watch-tower in the evergreen thicket to snare and spin some haggard hymns for my Most-So-Holy Lords and Ladies, who await the odd and raspy song with eager yet old ages tempered storm-ears.

There are some Gods who might simply ask for incense, or perhaps the first stalks of golden grain, or fat of the feasted bull, yet every day I feel the pull to produce storms, to hand back crafted chaos into their baroque and orc-bloodied hands of master craftship. Those hands, having strong shaped the earth, given chance to the gamble, so molding the odds that ever-impossibles might possible-seek with strive, I long to please with my own just-barely-tamed trials of rough and raw-hewn beauty, for they seek that bronco buck in all shapings. Ill has it to kill the life in that which is made, but rather like a wild bison to ride with bold peril against the evening's edge. There, shaking fist at the fires, and glance-turning, spurning the iron-cold glaciers for some glory to be found between. They know that fame is evanescent, but like a fire, is found in how high the flames may lick in that lingering moment of blaze before the black. So against that hard hearth I give Heimdall the oil of night's middling hours that he might vapor-of-the-flame carry it rainbow up star-cobbled roads to the royal, stone-laid fortresses of the mighty Gods. And into their hands of patient hale I entrust these rough-tumbled gems I caliban-carve in my humbled flights of frenzy.