Palace Intrigue

A soliloquy from an as yet unwritten tragedy set in the Black Vatican...
(Actually, I just had to write a soliloquy for my poetry class - please don't try to make this match up with my life, the Iraq War, the latest episode of Torchwoood, etc.)

Upon the Coronation of His Sinfulness the Black Pope, a disgruntled acolyte (viewing the coronation from a high window) speaks:

Look ye now, upon this corrupted flesh
covered with the myriad sins of a life
lacking any singular difference
or mark of distinction worthy of note.
Even in glory his pallid features,
so devoid of merit, so dead common,
are lost to the memory soon as I turn
so that scarce can I set him apart from
other sinners of ordinary stripe -
and yet, he is set with lofty title
and ermine cope to laud his sin o'er us.
What makes his transgressions more infernal
or his soul more blackened than is my own?
Our hearts each burn with a rebellious core;
why is his flame fanned by public acclaim
while others of equal fervor are let
to grow dim in pale anonymity?
When sins are tallied, he is but one who
Kicks puppies and breaks the tails of kittens,
whilst I have tempted, lied, cheated and killed!
Where my ebon crown, my flaming sceptre?
Where my cadre of dark-eyed servant girls
to tend my robes and my earthly pleasures?
Instead, I slave in this scriptorium,
penning the words of that paltry sinner
and by my arts, making of them canon
with vined borders in gilt-edged quartos.
Turn then, poisoned pen, to the unmaking,
to sin darker, more damning to the soul,
than any to which this poseur could rise,
and sketch my hardest heart's desires in blood,
and make of them a gospel of despite!
I shall write him out of the Will of Man
until his birthright is but dust and ashes,
and his Mass naught but incoherent wails!
Twist his words and hang him high upon them
until his face purples and breath leaves him!
He will bow his laureled brow before me
to beg my clemency and I will strike
him like the serpent he pretends to be!