by J. Lawrence
How odd, to realize
that as that fleshy orb sunk slowly down
through the sky-clear waters,
I could still see it:
depth was no bar to my perception, nor darkness.
Moreover, that detached organ
could still see--
as if, trailing that severed nerve,
those pale, gristly cords still reached out,
across the inches, feet, yards --
-- that separated us, to where I stood.
Atop my high seat in Valaskjálf
I can scry across nine worlds,
But my eye in the well
sees only into me, and all that I do:
claiming fallen warriors,
moving my game pieces--
all actions meant to delay the inevitable.
I am in this for the long haul,
and there are those who, behind closed doors,
(as if I cannot hear!)
about the dishonor my deeds bring upon me.
There is no dishonor in killing a foe,
seducing a woman,
weaving such a Wyrd-web
as even the Norns might envy.
All I do, I do for the greater good,
the final end,
and to that end I have sacrificed much:
Do you think, then, that I would quibble
at rearranging the lives of a few mortals?
If I could leave them untouched and still
achieve the same end, I might;
And then, I might not?
Even I cannot always see the outcome of my plans,
or the consequences of my acts:
After all, it is sometimes very hard
to see things from the bottom of a well.
(used with permission)