I create my own madness.
It swirls about the ether of my wanton imagination, and settles as I drift.
I drift, willing dimming eyes to an invisible light
That shines through wintry windows.
Those windows are frosted now;
God traded the sun for dead ice.
The ice seems colder than usual,
And on my twisted throne, so do I.
I long for war,
The heat of it, the brutal glory.
Blood, though, in all of its humanity,
Is not the spring I seek.
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