I hate the sun, hate how it follows me
        throughout the day. From dawn's first steely light
        till it sets behind the hills, I'm not free
        while I hide in my room, shunning its spite
        and one-eyed glaze. When I am called to land
        and must burn my feet upon the sand, a rage
        fills my veins, so at last, I understand
        how Loki felt, bound beneath, trickster-sage,
        tied by his son's own entrails. Above the stone,
        the great serpent dripped it venomous bile on
        his brow. His fury shook the Earth. My own
        fist shakes now, impotent against the dawn.
        I await my ragnorok when Skoll feasts
        on light; then in darkness, I'll have my peace.


Copyright © Patrick Carr, 2004. All Rights Reserved.