He speak not, he trace not, he breathe thy name,
The silence he live on was out of the game.
His hands are anonymous like his speech,
He's so funny but crafty indeed.
His dream was to be a big man,
To be acknowledged by the faction.
He did the hard work like a poor goldsmith,
To make the ornaments for the one he believed.
He put all the silver to make it all proper,
But then he remembered there was no one to wear.
The wounds made of that silver,
Are here in those crevices to remain forever.

- Slaying pencil