Coronation.

Hello Sun - tender king, you’ve an appointment with our skies,
And with our lochs, and with my meat, and with the concrete-shielded Earth.
We’ve the package of our scents, and of our essence – to deliver;
Don’t be tardy - gentle Sun, for the only recipient you are not,
With metal hands, all calm and crypt, comes the ovule of your enemy:
The Nano-Queen in her pewter glory – the twisted granddaughter of Gaia herself.
 
So make haste, Lord, to bind our needles before we dimly begin to shape
Monsters of such magnificence that our eyes begin to grey,
Monsters of such necessity that our peel begins to glisten and radiate,
Not with pride, but with manufactured splendour,
Not unlike a statue.
 
Quicker, Sun, unburden me. Bestow your heat to my parched lips,
And let me drink from your ocean of flame, and bathe my skin
Till it welts in pleasure, till my bones can dance in a surly slop.
For sizzling pain is sweeter than the candied-chains of eternity,
For if we china-dolls inhale any faster, your supreme reign will be ripped
Asunder.
 
Faster, Sun – better run, before the Queen is coronated
Before 'mortality' can be vaccinated.