I wither. I fail. I scream
I will not wake. Not ever from what awaits.
Silver abode and dark tusks.
No room for me. No room for mourning.

Sharp tongue and jolly seeming eyes
not aware of the deception
not wary of the sun that sets.
Because dentures and all, silver abodes
with dark tusks.

They come and find me. Not gold. Silver
Nor a gleam of a crown.
A gleam of parchment and sharp ink
for that is my silver and my home.