The day then came when he would stand
and feel his body, feel his land
His memory, though, would fail his trust
his hands were numb, his sword did rust

His eyes filled him with great deceit
as something called upon his wit
He saw the air was standing still
the sky was dark, there should be dew

'What went here?', he thought he'd ask,
'This must be no simple task'
His mind was but an empty tome
but he had to find his own way home

And then he roamed across the fields
oblivious to the power he wields
his land became his own demise
as his poor soul was paralyzed

In the end of the eleventh age
the player was left without a stage
Without a realm where he could reign
his stained sword, all that remained

The sun went out, the stars went dark
of light there was no single spark
His blood was running through the floor
when he finally said 'I'll fight no more'

As his knees faltered and his eyes closed shut
his body collapsed, his will was cut
The castle walls became a wreath
as he would draw his dying breath

And there he laid, the ground his bed
his body torn, but still not dead
for one more age there he would stay
as his poor soul would walk astray

why do I keep fooling myself?
what is the problem with me and my lacking capacity to create beauty of any kind?

incompetence - that is my middle name.

Yeah, that's what I keep telling myself.

enough is enough.