Sit comfortable, it is your throne
where scales are found.
Your sceptre is poison;
spouting venom
of pompous relief.

~.~

High above in that chair
you have forgotten
the day of your birth,
whereby,
life breached the whore
with mirth.

~.~

Your belly devours widows;
orphans know your name.
Linger not long with your shame;
you disgust the earth.

~.~

How does it feel,
man of wealth and fame?
Infamous for what?
A soul of sickness.
For compassion on fools
you forget mankind,
take your children and rot.

~.~

How does it feel,
wandering Cain?
Remember the mark
upon your brow,
a mark of destruction:
written with an implement
you cannot control
nor attain.

~.~

How does it feel?