Iteration Two: Infernal Automaton

The liquor of magma churn
Raging ink of my pen
In the ire of consequence
It is my will that bid it

These hands bear a reckoning
First inclination

I make use of gilded matter
And turn each planet on its axis
Align gravitational influxes
to compound the horror of my scope

My yield of tears is principal
The draughtsman's hand is always steady
Each line a cut, each curve a slight
Each colonnade to bear my weight
A perplexing geometry
Precision in my hostility
Graft the gore of universe
Into my monument

I cast a menagerie
Self aware and thoughts abstract
To rant and rave and reign
In search of my reason why

Of bloods descent and eloquence
Lost to mindless idolatry
Tamed with thine perfect word
Listen hard and well

All will know the word of me
The vexing rage of fatherhood
In supplication to thine will
My bidding is industry