all hail the ruler of albion.
not the son with the scarred scowl, the slick-haired and gaunt-faced scapegoat with a voice like thunder and a hardening heart. nor the daughter with hair like fire and a heart aflame, rebel princess with a crooked crown, the sinner and the saviour both.
in the throes of hope and fear, albion bows to a new king, quietly, but surely.
‘long live the queen’ who waves her sceptre with glazed vision and blackened lips. watch the lake dry up before your very eyes, watch the children grow up gnarled and sour, watch the iron price overtake the gold price and the water run black with blood. the statues weep sludge and the gears of industry grind on, and the jester has risen to the head of the court.
if albion is saved, then why does the very sun fall from our ochre-and-rust sky?
there is a new king of albion, a true king of albion; the hate festering in the hearts of babes and the maggots squirming in the hearts of corpses, the tar in our lungs and the toxins in our veins, the gnarled talons jerking the strings of our beautiful fire-haired marionette — ‘long live the queen’, murmured from puppet mouths.
all hail the darkness.
all hail despair.
all hail d e a t h.