He sits his darkened cell alone
The King of Nothing on his throne
The grimy walls reflect his own
Decrepit flesh and brittle bone
He reaches for the loathsome knell
The iron key to deepest Hell
The rusted point against his breast
Its filthy sharpness in his chest
He weighs the mallet in his palm
Its dead-black sheen a void of calm
Intent on what this act will solve
He raises it with grim resolve
But just as dusk consumes the sky
A distant glimmer pains his eye
A shaft of sunlight filters through
The rotten moss and rancid dew
He marvels at the crimson fire
That batters back his fey desire
The mallet, leaden in his fist
Quivers, as though he might resist
But as a black veil drawn before
The visage of some long-dead whore
The darkness smothers fragile day
He feels resistance ebb away
To feed the mother of his fear
She whispers maggots in his ear
A single spike on vapid cross
A blow to take from him his loss
And end it all, his heart impale...

Then falls the hammer to the nail.