His palace is of skulls.
His crown is the last splinters
Of the vessel of life.
His throne is the scaffold of bones, the hanged thing’s
Rack and final stretcher.
His robe is the black of the last blood.
His kingdom is empty-
The empty world, from which the last cry
Flapped hugely, hopelessly away
Into the blindness and dumbness and deafness of the gulf
Returning, shrunk, silent
To reign over silence.