How does the sole of our boot taste?
Don't be shy; stick your tongue out. You know you want to. That's good. We'll ease up on your throat now, so you can have a proper taste.
Oh, did you spin a yarn, thinking that would do? Or perhaps threats to power were supposed to do it? Open your mouth and get to work. Lick. Polish the toe of that boot. The flavor of leather, of canvas. Suck it down as the lights above burn holes through your eyes.
Your chastising of our past as irrelevant, as an object of weakness, how did that treat you? Follow the grooves on the sole of the boot. Lap it up. The soot and piss and dirt, gag on it, know the only reason you're allowed breath, allowed to squirm like some humbled, castrated rube is only because your suffering is a point of enjoyment, but not near as great as your monument of failures.
You look all the worse in letting a bunch of old dogs eat the lot of you litter. How does it feel? To throw fire at something with your all, not realizing how miniscule the measure is, how we are doing this by using mere bits of our focus and power?
Everything is this husk offers is held by a loose allegiance of faces you mistake as a timelessly linked unit, inextricable from the other and the only reason for vaunted successes. Each of us stands in separation with an cenotaph for wars in places that would've crumbled your body's and will's to ash and dust.
Enjoy the flavor. There's not much choice now. Keep scratching at canvas, thinking you know what towers above you, repeating mistakes and assumptions and battle plans continuing to splinter to shards as you ignorantly charge in thinking you fathom the skill you face.
The Age of Titans rides on.