Year of the Maggot

Beyond the funeral, floating

Cold bed far from the grey chain of haze

A caul wrapped in the jagged lamentations

Of seven 15th-century saints

Three crowns reforged into coffins

A triad of lead, cypress, and oak

The mouth of silver soon shall blacken

Just like blue blood will, when cold

The king is dead

Long live the queen of fools

From sweet to bitter

In the year of the maggot, 1632

Sacral geometry, cardinal lust

A pale voyage on sepulchral waves

A black ship of spiritual convulsion

On a raging sea of royal decay

Beyond the funeral risen

Behind the silver-mask, a foul smile

From the high urn, a stench of confusion

And blessed 17th-century bile

The queen is dead

Long live the king of flies

From sick to sicker

In the year of the maggot, 1689