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ŌDÍN

I am Odin. Fractus Urso. Not the god— I am the work. No crown on my brow, no throne in the dark, no ravens circling to tell me who I am. Just hands in the rupture where night splits wide, where something screams and becomes alive. I don’t command the storm, I feel it tear. I am the hour that hurts before breath is there. Call me Odin—not divine, but the fracture before the sign. The wound that proves something lives, the door of dawn cut deep in ribs. No crown. No throne. Just bone and will and weight alone. I am cracked— but not erased. Broken, yet bearing the load I brace. Stone in my lungs. Fire in bone. The world is arriving— I stand alone. Futures press hard inside my chest, they claw, they pull, they don’t let rest. Every step tears sinew, splits the ground. Still I rise. Still I stand. I don’t beg the weight to lift. I don’t curse the cost. Creation takes its payment— nothing here is lost. This is not martyrdom. This is function. Pressure doing what it must. Creation is contraction— not mercy, not redemption— and I do not flee the thrust. Call me Odin—not divine, but the fracture before the sign. The ache that opens morning’s door, the threshold carved in blood and bone. No crown. No throne. Just hands that hold while the world groans. I am split— yet still I remain. Broken, yet bearing the strain. HURT BECOMES FORM. I am not chosen. I am required. I am the pull before the fire. If life demands blood and breath take them. I hold. Call me Odin—not a god, but the pain that breaks the sod. The split that lets the future breathe, the silence filled because of me. No crown. No throne. Just hands that hold until it’s born. I am cracked. I carry. I remain— Until the new thing breathes. Until the silence fills. Broken. Yet bearing.