So sneered Ozymandias, at time’s breadth
but his kingdom foundered ‘neath clouds of dust,
or spores, as my own, whose gaunt masque of death
taints castle walls, and grows with each gust.
‘Twas a war on my realm that caused the fray.
As I rooted out witches, bards, infirm, fools,
puffballs took breath from the gallows on brae;
the rounded monoliths sprung forth like ghouls!
It were a bad King, I, that drove this bane,
now my kingdom chokes, while I perch my throne.
Oh, sweet knife, divine hand, open this vein,
for whom to reign when we’re buried alone?
Hail, them! The Watchtowers, whom, eyeless, see.
Hail the New Gods, that answer voiceless plea.
About the Author
Silvatiicus Riddle is a Rhysling-Nominated Dark Fantasy & Speculative Fiction Writer and Poet. He hails from the city of Gotham, and it is there that he hosts a glaring of chthonic gods disguised as cats, a hoard of books, and all of his imaginary friends. He studied English and Literature at Kingsborough. He has appeared in Abyss & Apex, Dreams & Nightmares, Enchanted Living, Eternal Haunted Summer, and Spectral Realms, among others.
http://www.Facebook.com/SilvatiicusRiddle Instagram/Twitter/X/Bluesky: @Silvatiicus