Author's Note: Just a quick update before I probably disappear for a while (wah). Presenting our Thor Gunderson, in all his poetic glory. Thanks for reading!

Rotted Root

The Swede finds leads,
sows seeds,
counts beans.
Keeps his creed
in dropping eaves
and employing fiends.
Death rides lean
upon pale steeds,
guns all agleam.
Do his bad deeds
go without heed
or an easy defeat?
Because the life he needs
is the life he feeds
in hollow retreats.

Can the White Spirit bleed?
Does a dead man sleep?