a funeral pyre of our despair

On the day my sweet Ragnar left,
our tears mushed up the words,
left them dripping off the page,
and GoogleMaps had muddled
the directions to Valhalla.
And in earnestness, we gushed a bit,
stared at our feet, made jokes,
but there was no avoiding the inevitable,
no reprise from what had come.
Our love awash, gone with the sea
from whence Ragnar came, those who explored,
and dug their mighty dragonships
into the wet sand, only to find the land of prosperity
gone horribly awry, found nothing
for which worth staying, except dear
Ragnar, who stumbled upon me while raiding a Starbucks,
a bit of plundered soy chai dribbling down his beard.
My dainty fingers met his beautiful, gnarled, dirty knuckles
and dropping a seax, he clutched my hand,
turned to his compatriots and growled in
stark, empowered affection.
He searched for work for months
to support our misinformed, ill-timed love,
had found nothing. Every potential
employer was mortified at his magnificent,
terrible visage. In poverty our affections slowly
waned, until the day I came home to find the door
shut in my face for a younger lover.
One who sported a beard and an angrier demeanor.
And so now we stood upon the shore,
lighting a funeral pyre of our despair,
constructing a raft of our loneliness,
and thus did Ragnar roar, as he wrapped his cloak
around his bulging frame and boarded his final venture
"My cup is laden with grief,
my heart is heavy. Life tires me so."
A moment passed. His mighty glaive fell
sullenly to his side. And his silent lips said
"I am obsolete."