It's as though through letting ideas slip away into nothingness
I've died countless times:
unrealised, unfulfilled, unsatisfied.
The last screams of agony devoid of substance,
reverberate through me,
Reminding me that
I've neglected to death that which could've filled me.

The ego's of sand trickle down
each grain a like on a post upon a newsboard, a performance, a lie.
Are they really smart? The people who make these things?
Promises to make me golden,
Just as cold and saleable as that, a commodity.

The worst is that I'm not alone in this
And most of you seem content.
Living being made to obey
With grains of grandeur being thrown around
as you dance to catch each in your mouths for sustenance.
Not much different from these poor jesters performing their kings.

Instead I aim big and don't expect a praise or prize soon after you start.
People aren't commodities and commodities aren't people.
Let's learn to enjoy the ride more than the destination.
Good luck, I believe in me,
I believe in you.
My resolve is steel, it's value in strength, unlike your golden lies.

Penned by my hand on the 3rd of Scarlatan, in the year 847 AF.