Woundwort

At the crux of our nation, the cornea dies

Spills out dissension, a barrage of cries

Written in looks and glanced rebellion,

We gather these ugly wounds, weep words opposition

Tilled fields bare bitter fruit, tendrils like needles furrow and root

Clasped hands dig nails through skin and through wood,gouge out the terms of our parenthood

Those who would summon, to court these assumptions, to cut out the blemish of the idiot prince

The godhead resides within the welt of coercion, defiles the virtue of all our children.

The accent of piety

The idiot prince

Pigheaded, exalted

And guilty as sin

We no longer cower in his necrotic penumbra, the prophetic repugnance wore out long ago

The call is heard, the word is given, the throng descends upon his eminence.

Attempted offerings, he weeps in his woe. The walls of his womb rock to and fro

We will come knocking, with baited breath, the scent of the apostate rife with repent

With icons dismantled, the firmament cleansed. We carve out new effigies and runes in the sand

Faces of kindred, faces of kind, the worship of kinship fuels starving minds

Where we lay, we will build

Though we may falter, we will build

The onus of power shifts in its cradle

The locks on the doors brittle, unable

We splinter the timber, stand over the general

The jabbering magnate, dethrowned and devoured

Dismember! Scour this mantle! We lingered far too long

Smelt the chains! Leave nothing unturned! We suffered far too long