He claims the crown, though truth says nay,
Loud in the right, though lost his way.
A name in hand, he casts with spite,
Waging war with phantom might.
His fury, raw — the world’s to blame,
Yet never wears a thread of shame.
He scorns, he mocks, then walks on by,
No guilt to haunt, no tear to cry.
He lifts his chin for feats so small,
As if they tower, grand and tall.
And when applause forgets to sound,
He wonders why there’s none around.
Alone, yet never sees the cost —
A soul in rage, compassion lost.
The Writings of Felina Silver 
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