In the court where the crimson banners bleed,
Sad-eyed monarch dreams on a rusted throne—
Storm-cloud fiddlers sawing moonlight into chains,
Laughter of jesters drips like mercury rain.
Butterflies with blades for wings circle the crown,
Whispering histories that crumble to sound.
I kneel, tasting iron in the hymn of the damned;
The king lifts a hollow scepter, and the sky disbands.
We vanish inside the scarlet madrigal,
Echoes of forever etched in a falling skull.