Flesh

Your skin's your mask,
your soul's your eye.

You had a nation
gorge from the
internal
sweaty
cesspit
of your
hand.

You had them
eat
from every
orifice
your words
spread.

Now your dead.

Now you waste.

Now you lay
on the exile
of your nations
haste.

Nothing more
than a body,
nothing more
than a dead
soul.

A perverse
sacrifice
and dead
you lay,
wasted
amongst
the ruins,

of your nations
gaze.

And the
power you
are left with,
a jester
amongst
those
who wave
their weapons
to forever
burry
the meaninglessness
of your
words.