The Last King

Within the sunken palace The throne stands steadfast Nicked and scarred by a thousand insurrections Its form twisted and unrecognisable But its power undiminished Emaciated forms Sowing the seeds of madness Obsolete and infantile The sceptre tarnished and worthless A disease of strength I am legion I wrench the guts from this writhing hall With the lungs of fire I exhale And paint flames upon the walls of this crumbling chamber Meaningless symbols are unto dust The insect exposed The vestige of our infancy None mourn All that is you is forgotten