a story that isn’t what i wanted it to be, but it is what it is

ancient words.
a forbidden curse.
trouble untold
shall unfold.
a braid of hair
from a maiden fair,
she doth declare
her brazen dare.
“let this hair of mine entwine
with thine and I with you.
let this be our glue
a love so true
that whosoever knew
would wish for the
broomstick brew of Yew.”
and so with a stir the jug is filled.
the night air is stilled.
Odin is not overjoyed.
more like annoyed.
sends his son Thor
to knock at her door,
Mjollnir at the fore
to mete her reward.
at the sight of his might
she shrinks into the night
apparently out of sight
but the blinding light
of Mjollnir bright makes her contrite.
too late she sees the folly of her ways
no more shall she see the suns rays
as this is her final mortal day.

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