He presides over barren fields of waste
The tongues of men draw insects to this place
Past majesties but a fading memory
The familiar stench of filth and duplicity.

Vermilion skies burnt black with agony
Genuflections offered to hypocrisy.
Even after the vultures have flown
The denizens still flock to the putrid throne…

He sits atop an offal mound of flesh
A father of lies as foundlings to the creche
Diaphanous wings of an insect nephilim
A maggot’s frame in place of lower limbs.

Doomed to speak naught but heresies
Honeyed words to all he oversees.
Even after the tumors have grown
The denizens still flock to the putrid throne.

He will destroy this place again
And break the bodies of broken men
But from the ruins, they will rise
To implore the throne for further lies.

In this shattered realm
The truth is solely his (mine) to bear
He found his (my) place in hell
When he fell to earth in despair.

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