Every second seems to beckon
Me, into shadows deep
And every minute has nothing in it
No precious things to keep.

Every hour is increasingly dour
Reducing my resistance
Every day has nothing to say
Blackening my existence.

Every week grows more bleak
And increases a heavy frown
Every New Moon, has a soulful tune
That drags my spirits down.

Every season seems without reason
Embossing a worthless life
And every year fails to stir.
I even yearn for strife.

The cycles rotate within self-hate
Now a blade is all I can see.
When all has passed, there, at the last,
Time no longer has meaning for me.

Penned by my hand on the 1st of Ero, in the year 389 AF.