And in mortal men
we often find, in the end,
we are our own mortality.
In that we drive the spitfire beast of ambition into the sun
to dance among stars
with the reins in our hands like firey wings
and control lying limp beneath our legs.
In search for the supremacy, of justice and truth,
through mastery of sheilds and inflections
imposed by the perceptions and delusions of a conceived reality,
and the illusions they inspire.
Tantalizing, they breed the bitter coils of regret with the face of such obscenities as lust and pain,
and watch their offspring bloom as the evening primrose and deadly nightshade quick
like a promise.
That time then leaves no room for fathers
or Fathers, nor are their hearts swollen enough for mothers to wrap
their leathery wings around their throats
and kiss them with familiarity cold on her lips.
Just lessons, drunken in through needles and swords and words tipped with poison on the breath,
seep through the heavy condensation of nonsensical speak and falsified craze.
And in this game of thrones,
death is the jester
and all hail the King.