Pelt

Worn, the diadem of suffering
 or crown of meaninglessness
 ignites the unending dusk and sets forth the mantle of perversion
 from love, thick with blood it is inherited by the many hands of I
 worked tirelessly those folds, lain and draping
 to both stifle and coax the growing numbers
 without eternal soul we are so moved by means
 trampled the pelt to new function
 so from mire make the fur of benediction
 taken upon our coagulate body to form a great beast
 all 7 heads and hands, ten tiny fingers plunged into me
 lest I should ride death reign less and alone
 for father who dies on new year's day
 to shoot the peaceful prince
 to put down a horse with legs that are broken
 and mend a broken fence