Seated near nowhere.
Contriving monopoly.
Slick and oil handed.

Handing gripping orbs.
Nails of green fungal decay.
Snarling curls of hate

Brooding in the shade,
Of time that dost not persuade
For overhead is heard

A trumpetting blast mark
Echoing through memory
Burning aural holes

Freeing enslaved souls
In pits of cubed metal rocks
Hiding under desks