I am fell Dragon, called Iconoclast.
Birthed of Byzantine zealot fire,
dauntless, unstoppable,
I shattered to shards graven gods.
Bane of sanctimony,
scorching, withering,
ripping bellies of sacred cows,
puncturing with poison fangs
pufferies esteemed by fools,
I slake my eternal thirst
with blood cascades of
pious persuasions,
Pharisaic professions.
Worshipped across centuries
by word-weapon acolytes
Swift, Wilde, Twain, Parker,
I cast a taloned shadow
into foul nests of pretense.
To purveyors of hypocrisy
I bring ruin, havoc, confusion.
Scurry into your rat holes,
mountebanks and charlatans.
Cower in fear,
feel my descending wings bring doom
upon your precious complacency.
I am fell Dragon, called Iconoclast.
You will not escape me.

LW