weaving delicate threads of my soul,
no pain, no rage -
simple affection, friendly fire, a
spark illuminating the darkest recesses

in the grand scheme, you mean nothing -
where you revel in your own angst,
it is your own doing...

believe killing me will solve the
tangled troubles of your soul, just
remember that the problems you
create, within your heart, mean nothing -

self-importance, which drives you to
believe i persecute, will unravel what
precious little you still possess,
but i am not angry - i have never
allowed you to create in me rage,
pain
or despair

Penned by my hand on the 20th of Severin, in the year 138 MA.