The soul wanders, the will falters. The world, impossibly mundane.
All wants vying, all dreams dying. The soul throbs against the grain.
New rounds of hope, and joy, illusions, birth crushed delusions, without fail.
The thoughts, compelling, strong, and dark. Like a fortress … or a jail (?).
The green light across the bay consumes the future, haunts the past;
All reserves of optimism almost emptied now, at last.
A special gift, or hateful curse, the soul fluctuates and waits.
Then god, then prisoner, now what? The Dark Lord at Angband's gates.