By right and will of ink and quill,
The young prince sits atop his gilded throne,
But when aught runs dry and naught can fill,
What can stop the thoughts alone?

Alone is he, alone am I,
Trapped inside of what it means,
To reflect upon a time,
Where I was once a better me.

Where words flowed forth like sacred wine,
And from that alter leapt great praise,
When stars saw fit then to align,
And summon the great glory days.

Who am I in place of that,
but a shadow affixed to roaring flame?
Of passions high and blazing fast,
All praise be to faded name.