Mastodawn

Morrígan
A #poetry thread

i.

Black angel of iron
from heavens of lead
soars out from the pyres
of vengeance and dread

to scythe through the ranks,
through cornrows of men —
no hands raise their thanks
for angel’s amen.

🧵👇🏼

ii.

A season to plant,
a time to uproot:
she harvests, leaves scant
the fallen in boots.

Her wings of a crow
spread wide over fields
to reap those below —
too bounteous yield.

At last, she is spurned
and green grows fresh seed
until she returns
when kings feel the need.

✋🏼🧵