Mike Stone's poem sets a single figure, a "lone god," in a room of extreme luxury: velvet, marble, gold, towering columns and chandeliers that seem to drip light. The repetition in the first line, "lone" and "alone," hammers home the point. All this splendor surrounds someone with no one to share it with.
The speaker doesn't state a feeling outright, but the tone is cool and observant, almost like a camera slowly panning across the room. The closing lines are the strangest. A "false dawn" echoes through the space, suggesting a light that promises a new day but isn't real. It falls on "silent succubae" in the ceilings, which seems to refer to the decorative figures overhead, though that is an inference from the imagery. Succubae are seductive demons, so the beauty carries something unsettling.
The mood is hollow, eerie and quietly decadent. Power and wealth are shown, but they look more like a trap than a reward.