A figure of a former man

So there was a story of "a figure of a former man"
He wasn't what he had claimed to be
whose heart was a withered meadow
of a petrified wood reduced to sand

As a kingdom it would fall as a desert
to a well, what sprawled to embers of an end 
was a inner  demon, a treason,
that no thirst could ever quell. 

No longer was he a whole, just "a figure of a former man"
Knowing he used to be so earnest, and used to be so kind.
Seeing now how he danced with the devil  
dishevelled, as he too was the devil in his mind

No ransom, no reason, just treasons like seasons 
he waned them till frost covered blood bled dry 
to blotted out suns, now blotted as one
as serpentine smiles that ever could pry.

He blocked out all existences and distances
the basilisk on his back that coiled his skin
the thickness of his eyes, weighed heavily for others
as the fury that nestled them deeply in sin 

The truth of the story was he saw his end
as an endless obscurity now staring back at him  

the wood was his body, and his limbs that withered
enshrined as a diamond in the snow...
he was now a snake, making silent rivers
in the sand, now the keeper of his soul.