Should this blanket of gold slip below the dragon's neck
as it grows and grows under the fortunes of your people
then it will awaken with heavenly fury, and raze your kingdom to ash
from which a fertilized garden of tormented magick will grow anew

Skeletons fused together of families seeking shelter
fine stone homes reduced to sea level
shadows on the walls with no one there to cast them anymore
a gulp of air is poison, bursting blood vessels and choking lungs
there is as little left of the castle as there is of any hovel
not even a standing door
ashes fall like bitter snow on neighboring tongues

The dragon's great green wings coveted the hoard of gold
beating gusts of chilling wind, the molten mountain runs cold
patrolling the peak and perimeter of this necropolis
festering energies awaken the spirits of the dead
energy from the lustful connection of a dragon to its hoard
the madness that brews in the very atmosphere
contorting the tapestry of reality to the will of paranoid malignancy
once a king, a catastrophic ruler, corrupted by power
now an echo that ****** the hairs when carried miles from home
he is one with his legacy, a dragon, for what more can anyone claim
only a crown on a body, witness to obliteration; only a king in name

Thus only do ghosts manifest keep company of the lizard
who cannot outlive the dead, annoyed that one day
perched on its gold, it will look out on all of its victims
unable to know they are at bay from the treasure, finally resting its head
even when that day is gone, the spirits still wander, aimless in despair
uncertain sad expressions, slowly decaying, lingering there
appearing with inverted funeral garb, white rags, robes and veils
sullen and dreadful, with sour magick in their exhales, an icy fog in the air
every day they are less restful, this kingdom of ghosts, every day robbed of peace
anger grows while none knows at what, why or where
they cast horror into distant familiarities of their memories, never knowing they can't become aware.