So much time I find has passed
I feel as if my head has been smashed
There is nothing by a muddled cloud
A veil inside my mind; a shroud

So old I feel at my new age
A hundred-and-four, I could be some old sage!
That makes me smile, with lips now sore
From disuse, I think they tore

Yet warmth came to this unused form
With a soul to light it once more
As I scrawl upon this little page
A thankfulness that quells the rage
Of frustrations that come with minds disuse
Instead of constant, rigorous abuse
Memories spring forward with each and every word
Even if such a trigger seems absurd

Ah, thank you this little place
To put little rhymes in the free space!

Penned by my hand on the 5th of Sarapin, in the year 536 AF.