A dream so real, I draw the blade
across my arm, my lifeblood drains
as I stare at wounds I made
and yet I cannot feel the pain.

Scarlet rivers fill my eyes
accusing stares from all around
Her name I call, before I die
my mortal form falls to the ground.

Harken to the Logos' halls I ought
and yet, ethereal, I linger here
beseech for but one willful thought
for pain and suff'ring, persevere.

These restrictions are a panacaea -
these rules, Your rules, I cannot take.
Why must this be the life so real; and Anarchaea
the dream from which I must awake?

Penned by my hand on the 11th of Ero, in the year 358 AF.