The Last of Our Kind
If he could rule the world, surely this rock would be his throne, he becoming the crown which had sunk into his head slowly, blood free flowing and then freezing in the cold air. After this sacrifice, all is possible as far as the eye can see, for that is his whole world. With blood as a blanket one is excused from animal pains, and become hardened. And yet not completely: the soft top of the head can still twitch with incoming images, like walrus stampedes on melting ice-floes. It's better to be the last of your kind, when you rule the world, because your kind is burning it up, even here under the clear blue skies. So he thinks, when I rule the world, I will end all the others first, and then wear this blanket of blood as a reminder of what we were. And I will slowly freeze into place gazing on the lands we melted, slowly hardening, as the lands freeze back in our absence. The last of our kind.