I spit on your gods.
For they have been silenced by time.
I burn your churches to the ground.
They become temporary suns in a world of darkness.
I dance on the kneeling corpses of dead prophets.
Their tongues long removed from their poisonous mouths.
I cackle at the screams and wails.
The worshipers are suffocating.
I frolic through the blackened fields of soot and ash.
Let it paint my skin and reveal my face beneath.
I adorn my brow in a crown made of bones.
For my kingdom is that of the damned.
I wrap myself in the fabrics of burnt bark.
My new found armour.
I drink of your tears.
A toast to your suffering as I sip them back.
- Quiet-Emerald