He is unseen, one in a crowd whom none call
Do not slip past that forgettable face
Crawl not inside to find the unhidden rill
As it flows in dark horror from place to place
He is a common thing, in no way singular
Who lets no one inside the uneven steps
Down those eyes that drown the solitary star
We boldly share in these human depths
Not your brother, not anyone's saviour
He will loom only closer to search your clothes
Push aside the feeble hand that seeks to stir
Compassion's glow (the damp, dying rose)
He has plucked his garden down to bone
And picked every last bit of warm flesh
With fear like claws and nervous teeth when alone
He wanders this wasteland of cinder and ash
I watch in terror as he ascends our blessed throne
To lay down his cloak of shame like a shroud
And beckons us the illusion of a warm home
A sanctuary beneath his notice, one in a crowd
He finds his power in our indifference
Shredding the common to dispense with congress
No conjoined will to set against him in defiance
And one by one by one, he kills us
A King Takes the Throne
(carved on the Poet's Wall,
Royal Dungeons, Unta) 
