My sun, my moon, my stars,
My lilies, my roses, my carnations,
Nothing but a sadder memoir,
Did it fulfil all your expectations?

My lilies, my roses, my carnations,
Always turning to dust, my plantations.
My thoughts are now inside out
What is this even about?

Nothing but a sadder memoir,
Filled to the brim with our complications
Wasted ink, a reservoir,
Can't get rid of my deepest frustrations.

Did I fulfill all your expectations?
Can we rebuild with stronger foundations?
Is happiness disallowed?
Let me see beneath the shroud.

Penned by my hand on the 18th of Valnuary, in the year 1001 AF.