The poet’s words live in the Mead;

within it grow the words from seed.

But seek it out, there is a cost,

search to deep and all words are lost.

For in the depth the words obscure;

a drunkenness where nothing’s pure.

_{Footnote: Mead has ancestrally been linked to the poet where Mead engenders the ‘poet mind’; in Viking lore it created the same state as the Berserker entered into, unfortunately, or fortunately, the Mead that allowed the poet to enter this state had the blood of one of the Gods as an ingredient and, as I have no urge to kill a God I shall continue on my current poetic trajectory.}