by Nick Gisburne
Exhibited in cylinders of brass
Exquisite trophies, silent, sit inside
Examined through impenetrable glass
Their pure perfection cannot be denied
Amusements, for the pleasure of the king
Exotica, to elevate his fame
Arranged at seven points around a ring
The silence of the night begins the game
Attendants slip the latches of release
And with a slow suspicion they emerge
Emboldened, seven angels part with peace
Advancing with a sinful, savage urge
But as they strike the monarch where he stands
He tears their souls asunder with his hands
