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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 (I) 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 (I) found his (my) place in hell

When he (I) fell to earth in despair.