In the hush of shadowed hours,
faith flickers like a dying ember,
casting faint and fragile light
on paths once clear, now lost in gray.
Inspiration drifts on weary winds,
carried far beyond my reach,
leaving echoes faint and hollow
where purpose used to bloom.
The quiet ache spreads slowly,
a weight that settles deep inside,
yet still I stand, bent but breathing,
holding on through the tide.

Penned by my hand on the 21st of Valnuary, in the year 1005 AF.