It was Wasted on You I think
The air I breathed when singing your praises
left a cold burn in my lungs
Which lingers in feelings
Of lost expectation
Of a genuine reply.
As a god above pantheons
You are assigned a greatness
Without having proved that your
Unnamed name has the authority to
Be more than an ideal
More than a collar
More than a Magician’s curse.
Your reign hurts the people
Who would gain more blessed fortune
From their own thoughts gathered
In the point of a stick than
From your cryptic whispering
In the minds of men trained in cruelty
Who keep your name on their tongues
Whist blood mists the air.
You are the Hydra
The many-headed
At war with yourself
Doomed to destruction
And I hope to watch your
Funerary pyre light the lower
Heavens as our ships sail for home.
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