a repository of erratic thoughts and rambling essays too long for social media

The Jötnar: A Poem by Adam Richens in the Style of The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe

Once upon an midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
After a long and arduous day of work-induced bore.
While I sat, suburban chilling, sudden came a thunder, thrilling,
Rattling windows, senses spilling, as the storm began its milling.

‘Twas no ordinary weather, not a tempest light as feather,
But a battle, fierce and tethered, gods and giants clashed together.
From the heavens, lightning flashing, thunderous roars, the earth was thrashing,
In my yard, the storm was lashing, ancient myths in clouds enmeshing.

Through the gusts and gusty gales, tales of Norsemen and their tales,
Bore a vision that curdled trails, a saga writ in stormy veils.
Thor, with hammer, bold and bright, against the Jotuns, fierce in fight,
Battles waged through endless night, in the tempest’s fearsome might.

Bolts of lightning, hammers swinging, echoes through the heavens ringing,
Gods and giants fiercely clinging, in a dance of chaos singing.
Rain, a torrent, fell like tears, washing away the ancient fears,
As the battlefield drew near, turning suburbia to arrears.

In the backyard, ‘neath the trees, shadows danced in ghostly seas,
As Thor battled, and with ease, defied the gods’ ill omens and decrees.
His hammer struck, the thunder rolled, a symphony of gods untold,
In the tempest, secrets old, of myths and fates forever scrolled.

The Jotuns roared, a primal sound, shaking the suburban ground,
Yet Thor’s might, a force unbound, echoed in the storm’s rebound.
Asgard’s son, with godly grace, fought to keep the mortal race,
Safe within this darkened space, where myth and reality embrace.

Each raindrop, a fallen tear, whispered of an age unclear,
As the storm gods drew near, battling forces ever austere.
In the backyard, I stood amazed, at the gods in modern days,
Entwined in tempest’s fiery blaze, ancient lore in modern maze.

Yet, with dawn, the storm did wane, leaving only drops of rain,
A quietude, a calm disdain, as if the gods had not been slain.
But in my heart, a lingering fear, of the divine that ventured near,
In suburban shadows, gods appear, in storms that whisper legends clear.