Death by Guillotine

A single silver tower tearing through shining silver clouds below:
Clouds, metallic clouds, flowing , ignorant to the storms down under,
Where icy rain cuts and all are victims to the thunder.
The masses climb to escape the chaotic storms below.

Sitting, back against the bolted dore atop the spire,
Slouched a fallen god, face blank with terror,
Suffering for his political errors,
By the ire of the peasants, his monument had become his pyre.

The peasants once cried, How could he be so keen?
So mighty, he, to take the throne,
But his voilence we shall not condone:
Despicable, he craves the guillotine!

The clamoring crusade kept climbing,
A sigh of despair muffled by roars and cries
To check the time left he moved his eyes,
But the clock had given up on timing.

Too sad to sweat and too worried to cry,
The forsaken god sat frozen, thinking,
(Pausing temporarily for drinking)
Contemplating the fact that he'd soon die.

His empire collapsing, literally, around him,
The god sat horrified and pensive,
Mortified to, for once, be on the defensive,
Yet even in this moment, his cleverness could still astound him.

The peasants gathered, banging on the door.
To his children, and for his crimes he couldn't stand trial for,
He, the disappointed father, made his children cry,
So he slowly stepped off the edge
And chose to fly.