A Saint's fall from grace
Was written in subtle remission
Misgiving the unknown lengths
Within his impending perdition

He sits alone with Familiar near
Drawing permissive ethereal energy
Through a single ring finger
Seemingly from nowhere

Incoming ancient rites
Through unprecedented sight
Which is merely a foreplay
Unto the forays of his personal plight

For he lays with the knowledge
Of angels, deities, and Divine kings
Paralyzed within these confines
And unable to speak
The peril of an incorrigible feral beast Presently feeding on his precious sleep

A sanctified clandestine ritual
Opaque within the haze
For the utter ignorance of his current form Can not be fazed

All the while perched above him looming
The orders of the past
Which cast his imminent ruin
Strangulated by a single urgent thought
To which is owed his undoing

An existence to remain subservient
Fluid, and entirely alone
As was the expedient nature
Of his excommunication from the throne

And though he's been devoted
Thoughtful and reminiscent
There still lies a lingering shadow
Dissipating in the distance
The latter to which can not be replaced
With any amount of insistence

For ice burns the veins
That label him a Saint
There's no way to defame
Or ever replace an ordained vocation

Innate spun the tine of the fate's Creation
Needless abandon to pursue explanation When the weight of his burden
Entirely subdues resignation

It's simply the ripples of the current Resounding within his present station

Whispering into the deep heart of his fear
With it's morbid, amorphous face
Ever reminding him the story
Of his final fall from grace