The Bloody Conquest.
You walk proudly up the ribbed stairs,
One bone at a time,
Ignoring the crunching sound,
That your spiked boots betray.
Your eyes are riveted on the red throne,
Interspersed with indigo- blue veins,
Enriching the seat of power,
With thick, royal stains.
Don’t be shy!
I can see the gleam of triumph,
Electrifying the air around you.
As you stand and bask,
In the majestic glory of your imminent dominion,
I see your little pink tongue dart out,
Polishing your parched lips with a telling sheen.
You don’t know it yet, Sir,
But you’re hungry for supremacy.
You take your place on the throne,
Squeezing the velvet texture of love in your hands.
The intertwining veins come alive,
As you carelessly unsheathe your sword,
The mighty pedestal beneath you,
Jerks and throbs,
Trying desperately to push you off.
But you’ve been practicing your moves,
You persist in your endeavor,
While you resist the obvious disapproval.
You dig your hands menacingly into the softness of the throne,
Your heels leave deep scratches,
On the surface of the bones.
Finally, it’s time,
For your fatal blow!
You raise your sword high,
And puncture a clean hole,
Right through the core.
Warm rivulets of blood flows down,
Spilling out vestiges of love,
Trust and desire,
Around your impenetrable boots.
The twitching veins stop moving,
The throbbing heart dies…
In the stark silence of the aftermath,
Only the echoes of your low, raspy laugh remains:
A haunting testimony to another prey having been maimed,
Yet another bloody conquest, at last, proclaimed.