Dóm

We pour sand into wine glasses and engulf your throat in fire
to make reflective mirrors for etchings of our lost words,
to bring about our law, our judgment, our hour,
to set into motion all that should have been in your stead.
We break falsehoods and untrue claims by sham prophets
and stand sure in conviction and the redemption
as we smash through the muddled mass who smile and grin
to their final, gasping breaths of life on this world.
We beat the wretch, condemn the whore, batter the betrayer,
and laugh our final laugh when they are left wondering why,
despite their arrogance, in defiance of their apathy,
and undeterred by the weight of their crowns of sand.
We pour sand into wine glasses and toast to the Great End
to make looking glasses for a fleeting image of vanity
and everything absolute that you took for granted
or ignored in spite of every single whisper I spoke to you.
This is your day of everlasting judgment. This is your doom.