The Frozen Throne

A sliver, of purest ice.
An arbiter of bone.
A whispering skull, a frozen seed.
Maddening whispers for a fallen lord.

The midnight sun of pale illumination.
Your rapid ascent? Or unnatural growth?
A thousand cuts, unrelenting.
Blade-scored, the turned champion.

You wear a cloak of many skins,
Horrific flesh, yet lingering illness,
Ruptures the shaft of glacial ice,
A raging behemoth, beneath the elder moon.

Your split veins may have cauterized,
Before the last word of rigormortis,
But the blood drinker, thrice fanged, shall drink yet of ruby claret.
Crimson coins seduce towards the wasteland.

The bloodsipper lies in malefic repose,
The dying light before your bloodfall,
A refracted mind of the emerald saint,
Lights the waking nightmare before dying candles.

The bleak spinter, shard of crystalline bone,
is in this dusk; a flawless fang, a cruel claw.
And the defiance of your forgotten love,
is in the bloodsurge at heaven's fall.