The soul of the king an out-of-tune lyre with harpstrings for guts – many sharps and flats. Sent by the LORD the holy pneuma's hand scrapes unholy noise. It maddens the king with dissonant thought – the fatal vibration of blood in the heart until he is dead.

I am an idle king, a hollow king With the wind and sea at my back, Whose shade walks among the dread bones of Hades. My ghostly beard is...