They, The Tyrants

Divine paranoia, a voice far away.
A lingering fear reappears
To confirm this decay,
A blessed disease of royal decree,
A shadow is cast. The hungry must fast.
Pray for the power that cripples divine,
Prepare for the feast and the beast
Of the coming decline.
We are enthroned,
Descendent from the ancient blood,
Enslaved we wait with bated breath,
Divine we writhe in lovely death.
Bathe in the ruins, a circle of rust.
Bow down to the statues that
Wither and crumble to dust.
A dreadful disdain, the siren's refrain
Falls on deaf ears.
A hundred more years.