I call this Lost:

Time stands still as friends fade away
a lasting impression of a life turned gray
words are spoken and turn to ash
as the world you knew ends with a crash
cries echo through an empty street
the prayers of the dying, claiming defeat
silence is golden, envelops us all
a blaring prelude to a monumental fall
power means nothing, failure supreme
as the fate of the world is held in a dream
alone are we now, the end in sight
doomed by the idea that might makes right

Penned by my hand on the 14th of Glacian, in the year 455 AF.