Towers

Above my head a looming structure.
An ominous figure of our lady grace's discontent.

She rules, she rules.

Discontent of her crackling voice, and her former glory.
Her tears, our victories, our righteous stories.

She sickens, she sickens.

Her ailment is fatal, but she holds to the throne with frozen fingers.
Her eye sockets are empty figments of hate, anger lies in their wake.

She dies, she dies.

On her throne still clutching to the rests. She is pitiful, disheartened, and still discontent.
She is weakness, powerless, and still she sits.

She rots, she rots.

Three months, and she still sits on her throne, refusing to be out shown.
Her flesh is spongy, and her hair in knots, silver locks of dirt. Teeth of sickly green.

She decays, she decays.

A skeletal figure, a black hearted totem.
She sits firmly still, she will not be forgotten.