Brunnhilde

I'm tired . . . so I wrote a quick poem.

Brunnhilde rides into the fire

And I weep at the augmentation of the sound

Before remembering her creator ripped the story from my ancestors

To make it evil.

It’s not grandma’s story and it’s not her grandma’s story

I’ll weakly claim it because I won’t give them the obligation

He torched my history to oblivion

But I don’t share his resignation.