Spared the ferule, what did it net them other than upset?
A lord of misrule raising mayhem
A sense of a world upended, among the waiting men some presentiment
Of scenes from older time coming back around again;
On the hearse-dark night of my birth, at the wharf
Stars fled their fixed berths like fire-chased storks,
As if their selfless sacrifices might thwart me and conserve
The world as it was before.
Omens written by the movement of quick-wing birds.
A beachful of sixpack wrapper trapped turtle babies.
The cruellest lords kneel for shoulder swords,
Arrayed in shades of voidscented sable,
As if strolling behind a funeral train.
It is the fierce fasces ferrule-fortified which they obey,
Suffering my lengthy tirades, for a taste of my tyrant flame.
Alchemisland 
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