it sits upon a scaly throne
bones covered in gold and other precious ores
flowing out from its neck like so much plumage
trailing onto the floor and into pools of writhing dead
those that might attempt to flee its gaze

and oh what eyes it has
a plague of pulsing orbs that float lazily above its head
drinking in the wasteland as a vampire does blood
each one focusing on a different tragedy

one thousand mouths regurgitate infinite platitudes
such siren songs carry across the countryside
and into the ears of one that i love

they always float on air when they leave
but i am left grounded as if an anchor is tied to me

must i become the beast to pursue it?