Throne of the Grinning Tyrant

He sits where carved stone swallows every breath, A wolf-fur halo, cold and close to death. His grin is steel that gleams in moonless black, While silent circles seal the world from slack. One arm hangs loose, as if he owns the night, The other weighs the dark with patient might. No crown is shown, yet shadows bow and lean; A throne remembers all that he has been.