Dead Of Winter

I: Spoke The Huntress

“Hail, Metachthonic! You there! Chthonic human in
This post-natural world. You stand in isolation
From the verdant Gaian nation. All you! Welcome
To Metachthonia! Thoughtbuilt walls hold you all
You've risen from the Earth long after it
Birthed the age where cold light Shines above
Sun-warmth. You stand in isolation from the
Verdant Gaian nation. Though stalwart, cold
Logic is not enough for the pyric human to
Thrive and burn. If in the valley of the spirit ice
Lies across the river, it's never in breaking
Through the ice. It's in the burning of the brand
—in the warming of the land—that ice will
Lift. All you! Welcome to Metachthonia! Those
Without fire have kept you from burning
Brighter.

II: The Bone Hand

At the black edge of defeat, shatter the bones
Of your adversary. And howl out to the glowing night
Drink deep its immortality. Before we go into
The ground—before the bone hand drags us in
—seek the moments of euphoria, the fires that
Light the great hall of a life. Relentless pursuer
Of enigma, incessant as the snow that falls
Stand, lungs aflame, over your prey. Drink
Deep of burning clarity.

III: Topos, Mythos, Anthropos

“Huntress! I feel so cold, so tired. I've always
Charged, i've never baulked. But now the
Summit seems so far. Huntress! Have you ever
Been, so cold and tired, like the dead of
Winter?” “Metachthonic, you are weathered
Not broken. Be-cause it is dark will there never
Be light? Because it is cold will there never be
Warmth? It is not the dead of winter. It is the heart of
Winter. Know you not the land on which you
Tread? For, under the snow, a heart beats hard
Can you not see its image in the self? Run
With me. We will hunt the spirit of the land. In
The solar glow, we will hunt. Hunt with me
Where topos, mythos, anthropos* collide. Woven to
Our souls we take our prize. Hear its beating
Heart; see the ice lift off the river. Weave this
Tapestry to adorn the great hall of life.