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Orcus On His Throne

Cretins scurry, nostrils skyward, sifting slaughterhouse smells
They are us, and we are them.
We serve a villain who can't decide which mask to wear at any time.
The overlord gnashes his teeth
Assessing his underworld with its stygian spirals:
Embers, ruin, fear and conflict.
The grime of Sheol won't reach him on his tyrant's throne
As he sits, waiting...

The ruler is seated, bored, caressing his claymore
His dome twitches ever so slightly as a servant enters.
Fatigued and wheezing heavily, not daring to drop a sweat on this oppressing majesty.
Cocytus ice viciously nibbles skinny legs
For he fears the lowest circle, where vermin is frozen in its place.
Slithers off his skin for a fistful of status.
Hands worked to the bone, though still too idle for his lord.
On a scarlet cushion brings he his master's boots.

A seductive swan drops by, demands a courting chance.
It is him, and she is us.
Sliding neck tightens and she resists, whispering back with more than equal wit
But its beak sickeningly digs into her wants and needs.
Fawning over his own ability to fulfill them.
Though she cannot escape her lowered ceiling,
She bides her time while fighting too gently.
For now, she brings her lord's greaves.

The slaves of the slaves, we bake in dirt
Excavating items precious to any but ourselves.
We bask in a vexing citadel which hogs our space and time as well.
The castle could be ours if stormed
Yet we contend ourselves with leaning against its walls
To straighten our crooked backs.
It beguiles us into being awe-struck when really we are afraid,
Even when we excavate our master's armour.

There are others
Angelic silhouettes soaring highly, defying.
They're abominable all the same but their stitched-on wings mislead from far away.
But even after dodging all resenting arrows
Will they burn up in the nearing of a sun's ghost.
Shrieking, they will plummet and from their crash onward
Will their snouts be more deformed than ours still.
But they are us, and we are them.
Meanwhile, we find our lord's gauntlets.

Glowing reckoning eerily twirls when cretins stray,
Even though they're beckoned back by a gnarly gauntlet.
Our lord speaks with the voice of many to extend how far his orders carry.
The legion squelches with extreme prejudice.
It deprives the deprived 'till naught but their fusable rags are left.
To betray it is to become it;
Assimilated into anonimity,
Yet having found their (master's) armguards.

He is disgusted by the ancients, revolted by their gods.
Although they were him, and he is them.
On his throne will he ever be sitting, unthinkingly feigning making decisions.
Unwilling to enter the pantheon, he sends dumb muscle on his way.
Servitude is the logical outcome.
He will not cheer, will never applaud, won't even thank
The minion that returns with his helmet.
Rejoice, for he is fully steeled for a war that needn't be.

Sword in hand, inaudible though a sharp advisor.
It never slays who it pierces, but there are worse fates it delivers.
An ebony cloak, aggressively rolling, eclipses what could have been fruitful hoping.
One foot stepping on it will sink into a meaningless black.
A horned helmet shoves aside all promises, mask falls off, features naked.
We ignore, we abide, we fetch another.
For he is us, and we are him.
We are all cretins, and we are many.