A circle of fire burns around me, a mirror not a door, winding tales upon the kingdom, let the monsters roar. I spit the words before me, chewing upon the fat, craving sinful playthings, a slice of this and that. My audience, a gift of malice, their faces a lie, I drink from its chalice. I am not the image you see before you, I have no warmth to give. My dead hands pull, my dead hands tear, my dead hands don’t forgive. We shift, we skip, a tribute in his blood. I call, I cry, I gag, I choke. Mother’s milk soured with sin, the shaved goat of wisdom lay down with him.