Upon your claws and blade coats rust
a fine layer of it, produced by insatiable lust
and begging voices that cry for jam
or an orphan to be the sacrificial lamb.

You tilt your head up to the sky
where you gone to and gone by.
The dragon slain twenty times
flight your token, on your back like dimes.

A weeping passerine poses,
with two mourning feet.
Meadows of yellow roses,
miles to the eyes are seen.

Homey house cottage nestled in the woods;
from it a blood splattered and worn path.
Gravestone at home, upon it rotting goods:
engraved on it, a boy’s name and role to match.

Weep, O Desperate Immortals blessed by god.
Weep and let us hear you sob.
In a hundred’s year time, you will choke on dust
produced by the remains of what you have deemed just.

What are you?