Emperor GUI L LOTINE
I sit with my spine straight— siege-less. My brows primed to incursion whilst my teeth cage shrapnel, unsheathed blades, an unending supply of steel. With my compass paralyzed at north, I trek this world inexorable. My soldiers declare pastures as graveyards. They march across the earth, blood pumping their veins, dampening their spears. Beyond the barren fields, a black maw rivals me. It yawns, mocking. My knuckles—a blunderbuss before scattering buckshot. When man scorns returning to dust, a tyrant is born: a king turned barbarian. I command a stampede, my iron fist pointing to the black heavens. The abyss laughs. Though amid the thunderous war cries, buried in my vexed soul, a presage made itself apparent:
This pride will paint my hearse. It will buttress my purgatory and tattoo my corpse. What are soldiers to kings? What are kings to God? 14
P O E T RY
