No longer can tghe night truly make me serious.
Excitement flowing yet my boredom still growing, this pain is become
quite expected.
T'was in my mind, one of a kind, that the sensation would be so easily
elected.
Was a burning sensation, once long ago, time lost now beneath the sands.
And now I look down, so slowly now, to gaze at my long-scarred hands.
Why I bleed without being cut, why I'm dead without having been smitten
The realizations are fitting over myself now, oddly snug as a mitten.
I see now where I screwed up, where I stumbled and should have fell.
And now I find myself, deadly alive, and struck to the lowest pit of
hell.
To die, to live, to know it all, would be to know one's ending.
Yet I feel my true existence is only just beginning

Penned by my hand on the 19th of Slyphian, in the year 117 MA.