Woundwort

At the crux of our nation, the cornea dies
Spills out dissension, a barrage of cries
Written in looks and glanced rebellion,
We gather these ugly wounds, weep words opposition
Tilled fields bare bitter fruit, tendrils like needles furrow and root
Clasped hands dig nails through skin and through wood,gouge out the terms of our parenthood
Those who would summon, to court these assumptions, to cut out the blemish of the idiot prince
The godhead resides within the welt of coercion, defiles the virtue of all our children.
 
The accent of piety
The idiot prince
 
Pigheaded, exalted
And guilty as sin
 
We no longer cower in his necrotic penumbra, the prophetic repugnance wore out long ago
The call is heard, the word is given, the throng descends upon his eminence.
 
Attempted offerings, he weeps in his woe. The walls of his womb rock to and fro
We will come knocking, with baited breath, the scent of the apostate rife with repent
With icons dismantled, the firmament cleansed. We carve out new effigies and runes in the sand
Faces of kindred, faces of kind, the worship of kinship fuels starving minds
 
Where we lay, we will build
Though we may falter, we will build
 
The onus of power shifts in its cradle
The locks on the doors brittle, unable
We splinter the timber, stand over the general
The jabbering magnate, dethrowned and devoured
 
Dismember! Scour this mantle! We lingered far too long
Smelt the chains! Leave nothing unturned! We suffered far too long