gawdy the monarch

Open the doors for the last of the days has arrived!

Blasted on points that joint that they took, the kid comes correct but he hasn't a hook.
Opting for a notion, ocean's seemed to scream the gleam of bloody streams.
He arose, sweet smell of a rose, as the slaves row, in hard scarred once tarred rows.
Hell hastens hither, holding hexes and holydays hand in hand.

Cradled and culled by life blood angellic, he's merely here to find us and tell it.
Knelt before by many, followers aplenty in elation for the subjugation of their nation's liberation.
Having a great run, he sees fit the world he runs, some say he never should have run, taking care of a fair share of glares as those tears begin to run.
Lavish linguistics lay lovely lullabyes, little by little they lose lucidity.