Against the ice-blue sky rears
The beetled brow of my enemy
Ragged and dark
A granite god, poised to crush me with His stony fist

With my deadened hand upon His hip
Death-white
I drag my corpse another excruciating inch
Toward His shoulder

His frigid breath tears at my back
I cling to His skin, bloated with stolen glory
A salted leech
Defenseless, dying, doomed

He brushes me away without thought or effort
And the monument of a man
Glory wrought of carved stone and mortared with memory
Crumbles to dust at His whim

Shrieking laughter fills the world as I recede, defeated
Into the black belly of the Vashnars
And the cold embrace of Thoth
Until only my arrogance remains

Penned by my hand on the 13th of Sarapin, in the year 460 AF.