All things fade away,
or so I have been told.
Even the Soul weakens,
tugged upon like the lunar tides.

As age overcomes me, my will is less resolute,
a constant pressing upon my hopes and dreams.
My physical heart grows slow,
while my metaphysical heart urges to break free.

Bile rises in my throat, as I watch the past fade,
a rising empire has been leveled to the ground.
Upon the ruins of my life others are erecting
that from which a new future will grow.

Decay.

Penned by my hand on the 8th of Sarapin, in the year 444 AF.