Your throne is carved in rotting grain,
a banquet swarms with living knives.
Through rancid breath you split the vein,
and stir the marrow back to life.
The fields ignite beneath your tread,
you teach the worm to sing in bone.
The swollen fruits of ruin spread,
yet every pestle crowns your throne.
You are the pulse of spoiled meat,
the choir of wings in fetid air.
Where others choke, you find it sweet,
and turn decay to jeweled fare.
You taught my tongue to taste my name,
to drink myself as holy wine.
You crowned my greed with tender flame,
and shaped my want as if divine.
Coins gather where your laughter falls,
my palm is heavy, lined with gold.
Your buzzing choir fills my halls,
and feeds the pride I dare to hold.
No saint could grant me such a throne,
nor teach the joy of feeding first.
Through you my marrow is my own,
my hunger blessed, my thirst reversed.
Ad Beelzebub Magne
© Copyright: Староминскаяя, 2025
Свидетельство о публикации №125082106477
Свидетельство о публикации №125082106477
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