Back Ta Craftin’!

A stout man from Pittsburgh, a man of the wild. 

Son of soil and storm, anything but mild. 

The mountain’s always been my home, got steel in my blood. 

I practice “when in Rome.” Scavengers are my buds. 

I have a whole life crisis, sailin’ the wrath of fate, 

I’ve got no time to wait, boots of fur and hide can keep up with my persistent gait. 

For a while I thought my life was a recipe for hate. 

My heart got harder. 

Was a real firestarter.

 Until I discovered the Stigmata Martyr. 

He listens to preachers, he listens to fools, he learns from the dropouts, who make their own rules. 

Is he two things, or is he none? 

The Odna. The Alla.

The all and the one. 

‘Twould seem in his youth, he lost control, in the form of the goat, he purchases souls, to those who’ve got nothing, he provides forging coal, whatever is needed he can play the role. 

What name, what face, has he to you? 

Do you see it as she? 

Do you see it as two? 

Do you see it as many? 

Do you see it as few? 

I see it in your eyes. In the mirror, do you? 

I see it on street signs, and in the plants he grew. His word between the lines, behind rivets and screws.

Rusty bolts hold rusty walls. If it unscrews, the curtain falls. 

At first it may seem as though you’ve gone mad. 

Seeking solace from self in rooms covered in pad. Few know the word tartan, but all know of plaid. 

Be ye emprah or spartan, look up to your dad. 

Protect your mother, as does mighty Thor. 

Sometimes forgiveness, means walking out the door. 

There should be no such thing as forbidden lore. 

They say not to read it, read it twice, maybe more. 

Maybe you don’t need it, but once you learn how to farsee,

you’ll learn forgiveness, at least, from your worst enemies. 

They say fight flight or freeze, they say feed fight and oof, but start by learning Fehu, to rebuild your broken down luck. 

Uruz is the gold bull, that was thunderstruck. 

Turisas might be giants, why we needed the ark. 

But just one key of many, is the mighty Futhark. 

Iron sharpens iron, like the blood in your heart. 

They say god is love, and now’s the time to start. 

The tongue may speak lies, but love can only be true. 

They say fear is a liar, tell me, what say you? 

A meal cooked with love has a lot to tell you. 

They say a weak burger you can talk, as you continue to chew, but a burger with strength? 

Is cooked with love true. 

They will call a meal made with love witchcraft, or voodoo, but clearly, then, they are not for you. Be it the Lord of the Storm, or the King of the Jews, or the shapeshifting mountain man, talking to you. 

What some call black magic, the real word is love. 

Those who truly live by it mean no harm to you. 

Son of a wolf, Deus Pater coyote, sewer rat in a cage, locked in from the inside, with peyote, to shield the world from his rage. 

Some stay there for three days, some stay there for more, 

Some come out in the night, fewer lies to abhore. 

Sun Tzu, in his wisdom, wrote “The Art of War.” 

The songs of Swedish Steelboots, led me to his door. 

Showed me that I’m not enjoying rage, anymore. 

Through fire and flames, through hardship and pain, 

I’ve united my heart, soul, body, and brain. 

I no longer wish others an ill or their bane, 

the blood moon, for me, is now on the wane. 

Perhaps one day, I will meet it again. 

When I do, I will show it, iron’s love, and love is for anyone anywhen. 

The one who hates, and the one who mocks,

the former just needs a few mates, and the latter wants to talk.I know that to many, it seems quite a shock, but birds of a feather, are a fair weather flock. 

Love is the key, now open the lock. 

Get to it, now, be ye dove, crow or hawk!

Follow My Blog

Get new content delivered directly to your inbox.

This is not a pipe. It’s a re-usable cigar.
Create your website with WordPress.com
Get started