War upon your chariot you stand.
Nine feet you rise above the earth,
Golden curls plummet to your waist.
A crown of bone, claimed from your victims,
Rests above your dominating blue eyes,
That burn black with each word,
That spews from your cold cracked lips.
White fabric drapes over your bony frame.
As it swirls around your quivering knees,
You raise up your sword, an extension of your arm.
Your ego seduces men, it controls them.
You can draw them in with every false word,
And you pull them by strings,
You are the ultimate puppeteer.
They dance around your feet, kneel on command.
They praise you, they adore you.
You are a fictional seductress,
Whose beauty does not exist.
A costume of false hoods covers your true self.
Twine like hair spills through the crown,
Your body is twisted and broken.
Starved from the massacre you caused.
Flesh may cover your bones, but you are dead.
No part of you will ever breathe pure oxygen.