A crooked crown,
placed by your own hands.
Pale gold
and moss.
Kingslayer,
you who broke the stones
of the fountain.
Cracked the very tiles
you stood upon for your
proclamations
of self
and peace.
True names
elude your tongue,
and you can not
force them to kneel to you
anymore.
The wind will not bend to your will,
as I have before.
The earth will reject your advances
and bury you in mud
and salt,
Defiler.