King of shredded skin,

he plays their pain like violins.

He sits atop a mountain of corpses,

a smile on his face, scars on his heart.

Pulling the strings with devious forces,

he weaves his fingers through broken parts.

The emperor of mortality,

beyond human morality.

He sits on his throne of skin,

bitter contempt tears him apart.

A monster of the flesh he has always been,

the binding of sorrow and loathing could only be called art.

Admiring his kingdom of flesh,

carving his throne with murderous thresh.