Of will, shall it be
Of notion, so it is
A gaunted hand in the banquet of servitude
A throng of veils swells with inklings of disquiet
Cothurnal wails drown the glees of ill opulence
Requital reigning
Through its garb, the dagger felt
Through its maw, cruor spilled
Ablegate bludgeoned, miter befouled
Illusions of fatiloquence undoubted and glaring
Telling globe shrouded with soil, vestige of tomes inurned in gold
Triumph of lesser bodies none closer to the light
