Portrait of a King

A rusted red mantle. Hello God. You are a vision, an eyesore, that poetic verse that goes the way of waste: fecal literature. You come at me with ruse, your condescending subterfuge. But you are less denouement and more of an afterthought. Your eyes engage living eyes. The carpets match your flaxen beard. Lights shadow likeness where caption's disservice do. Dull colors of your compunction show forever in your worried smile. Glorious hubris spills from your countenance to mine. You are king, and I, your canvas, and if I perish in the evening sun, how then I must become you: a withered child in the belly of a boar.