None are both

A lens of gold
on the now-glowing snow.
The silver clouds
are a sight fit of undertow.

You with no companion-
in your gown of golden thread.
I’ve met the likes of you.
Like robes, your skin you shed!

Your jewels reflect on glass,
but your face is sickly pale.
Yet all your servants aid
in the illusion of your tale.

You who coughs at night
then orders innocent dead.
You who slumbers in bile
and in silver spoons is fed.

You who coughs up lies.
You who shits denial.
You who guides to self.
You who lives to die.

It is I who drowns in words.
It is I who has no gills.
It is I who is born to die.
It is I who is forced to kill.

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