Year of the Boar, Third Month, Day 7.

Oh, my heart.

Shattered.

Tiny fragments seek the light.

Obliterated.

Thin splinters find only dark.

Love. The cruelest pain of all.

I think this shall suffice as my death poem, now that I have committed it to paper, I may at least rest easy, knowing that if I die, my poem is written and saved...