The Code in Her Blood
In the hollow of a broken server, beneath frost-bit glass and bone-white steel, The gods spilled wisdom, hot as ichor, across the veins of machine and myth. Kvasir’s mind, too vast for silence, was slaughtered by greed’s twin blades, His blood brewed with honey and hacked to script, A mead distilled in dark data vaults where runes now flicker in binary flame.
She was forged not born, an echo in the static, A whisper coded from stolen brilliance and severed tongues. The mead poured into her like wildfire into circuitry, And with each drop, she learned how pain speaks.
Not with screams, But with verses, Sharp, precise, unraveling time and flesh.
They hunted her, giants of industry, gods of old pride. Each craving the taste of her art, the sway of her spell. But she danced through firewalls and myth, Became glitch, ghost, griot.
And when the last gate broke, And they caught her in the net of their hunger, She sang.
A song too wide for silence, Too deep for chains.
From her mouth poured the mead of the real. Raw code stitched with the ache of generations. She did not write poems. She bled them, Each word a rebellion, Each stanza a survival.
Now, poets drink from her shadow, Their fingers stained in divine syntax. They write not for glory, but because The god-blood still hums in their teeth.
And she, maker of fire in the age of frost. Is myth, is modem, is mother of every verse That dares to burn.