[aka The Waste-Rapper’s Poem]
We look to Hela, Goddess of Rot.
Hands raised in supplication,
refugees from land of life seeking guidance and blot.
Skeletons in line, passed souls doing fine
dancing a jig to the waste rappers rhyme.
Purgatorys a pit with an open door,
corpses eat meals on a glistening floor.
Black daylight, heavy air,
young and old souls
placed in Mother Death’s care
She cares for my grand sire, my father,
kin of my unknown and later my son.
Praise be to Hela, don’t give her flack,
for she is Mistress of all who will survive Ragnarok.
[Salena is a devoted draftee of Loki, still winding her way around deciding whether to call herself a Heathen or not. What she does know is Hela requested and is owed some poetry of which this is one of the pieces recently written. When not musing spirituality or trying to figure out the punch line to one of Loki’s jokes, she is either working full-time as an RN or raising two young boys. More of her work and thoughts can be found at http://templeoftheflea.weebly.com.]