Here There Be Dragons (or, A Doggerel Out of Skyrim)

Here’s why I should perhaps never be allowed to play video games. Things like this happen. I’ve never been very good at video games, and I’ve always particularly sucked at RPGs. But in Skyrim, that doesn’t matter. I just wander and see what happens to me. Richly addicting and strangely satisfying. The freedom of choice in every action and interaction is the best thing I’ve ever seen in a game.

Here There Be Dragons (or, A Doggerel Out of Skyrim)

I went far north from Helgen Keep
into a land as deep as Time
where frost trolls slumbered
on the steep slopes of mountains
glazed with Winter’s rime.

With the blunt Axe of Whiterun strapped
on my back, while wolves snapped and leapt
at my ragged robes
as they flapped in the bitter
winds that never slept,

and an Imperial bow (fine)
in these soft hands of mine, I strayed
from cities, half-drunk
on Nord wine, out where giants
held mammoth parades

in valleys between rocky hills.
And there, searching for thrills, I snuck
low amongst boulders
to make kills at a distance
with Arrows of Luck.

I hoped then to plunder all sorts
of swindlers’ dens, ruined forts, and dark
dungeons crawling with
strange cohorts of bandits and
undead. But a stark

dawn found me with Rattles below
the old swollen and slow-setting
moons of Tamriel.
And then—oh yes, then—I heard
a dragon singing.

High overhead, above the eagles,
it turned hungry circles and fell,
with wings folded, down
on me full-speed. I died there,
my Thu’um yet unyelled,

and I cursed the computer screen
for all glimpses unseen today
of Falkreath, Morthal—
damn machine—! Where’s Solitude?
“Load autosave. Replay.”

About John MacKenzie

I'll mumble for ya. Poetry, plus most things quantifiable: science, neuroscience, memory, epistemology, baseball. And so on.
This entry was posted in Art is lies, Art is theft, Doggerel, John MacKenzie, New poems, Poem tweets, Poetry, Skyrim, Video games and tagged , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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