They called me stone
They called me 'emotionless'
They called me hard, granite rock
But now, they are imprisoned in their own rocks,
Rocks of cells that hold them against their words,
Deep down in the dungeons,
The darkness grows like a creeping vine,
Around the soldiers, chained to their solitude
Prisoners eating filthy rats,
Drinking wines of dirt,
Just to keep Death at their fingertips.
Damp and decayed, bars of steel separate,
Those I hate and those inferior.

Whilst prisoners suffer in agony,
I drink wine of berry, fountains—
Of black pomegranate.
Maids attending to my every desire,
As I sleep on my sheets of gold.
Enjoying sweet luxury and sugar-salt debate
And I smile out my window,
Through which my merciless laughter,
Carries…

People dying from a black plague,
Sick with disease and starved for justice,
Lying, rotting, in their dirty little cots
Rolling in mud to get clean!
Poor little persons, I croon,
How sad to see my people,
Twisted around the straws of poverty.

Spectators watch with growing horror,
As I smile down and observe my power.
My power!
Undeniably it holds me to its tyrannical grasp!
And a voice from my mind, but not heart,
Speaks to ghosts in the shadow, full of pride…

Behold! my kingdom of pain.