Antique
He softly rose from the decaying seat,
awake for the final hour of life.
Light continuously failed to enter
the stark, dank room, littered with old papers
and cracks crudely boarded over with wood.
A dusty mirror rested against rot,
its own shattered and crimson splashed surface
fitting in well with the guilty silence.
He shuffled across the creaking flooring
toward the silver-lined exterior.
The image it returned to him rarely
sent an excess of pride throughout his veins,
only reminding him of hidden scars.
In the reflection he noticed a shade
standing quietly in the back corner.
He simply nodded and returned to his throne.
A single moment ceased the years of wait.
Death had received God into its cold hands.
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