When you call out your name,
and hear it coming back,
is it your ego, your fame,
or something else you lack?

Stand at the edge of a canyon,
shout into its depths,
why must they know your deeds are done,
can not your eyes percept?

Grief, destruction, sadness, rage,
blazing through your soul,
burning through your veins,
is your heart but an empty hole?

Those who hate you understand not,
scourging you with magic and blade,
on history's scroll you're but an inkblot,
is that enough to drive you insane?

It takes so little to push one over,
our minds are oh so fragile,
for luck you need far more than clover,
is your need for attention that vile?

Know that you are far from perfect,
and only the Gods may understand,
when you're born you're already licked,
your hourglass has run out of sand.

Penned by my hand on the 8th of Midsummer, in the year 145 MA.