Mjölnir

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Achtung!

Use with caution,

You could rupture,

The sky,

Flatten,

Your house,

Or put,

An eye out.

The handle is too short,

And it looks a tad tacky,

It’s head is made of lead,

And Loki,

Keeps scheming,

To steal it away.

But,

Credit where credit is due,

It works wonders,

Holds great power,

And can still be seen,

Today.

It still rings true,

They don’t make them,

Like they used to.

Nymph-o-mania

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The Nephelae,

In their endless nebulousness,

Floated,

With empty jars,

Once filled with rain water.

The Hamadryads waited,

With breath bated,

For a little drizzle,

But the Nephelae,

Wasted all of it,

Once again,

On a parade.

So to save face,

They went to their sisters,

The Naiades,

To fill their pitchers.

“Back so soon,” they asked,

Poking their heads out,

From the running rapids.

The Nephelae looked at their feet,

“Use it wisely,”

Said the Naiades.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you”

The Nephelae screamed,

Dipping their jars,

Into the river.

They floated off, toward the forest,

Then the Aurae blew them away,

Over the Amphitheater.

“Now’s as good a time as any!”

And they dumped their cargo,

Onto the concert.

Sisyphus Within us

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The two sides of a raindrop are agression and adoration,

Dropped by a drizzle of infinite duration,

A single simple, scattered smattering of splattered saturation,

All that we feel is subject to sudden migration.

These tides of emotional position; disposition,

Of inhibition and ambition,

Of intuition and exposition,

Of ignition and intermission,

Are constantly in a state of transition; transmission.

Why push the river? Its flow is beyond control,

To worry about its current makes a mountain of a mole-knole,

Which we then stagger to the summit of- beating back a boulder,

Which hits it’s goal, slips from control and rolls.

This is our ancient toll– our precursor’s curse,

An insatiable thirst for a whole soul.