Monday, March 17, 2014

The Warder of Wyrd

                                    And last there comes the Warder of the Wyrd
                                    Across the acrid fields and heaps of teeth,
                                    Before, the cries from throats of worms are heard,
                                    Behind, the prancing of his dwimmer-beasts;
                                    Might he vanish North and pass with peace?
                                    As lief he would unmake the very word.

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