Confines of the essence.
Giving a scent of changing effervescence.
When nothing makes sense.
Going feral trying to construct bounds, building a big fence.
But the effervescence of the changing seasons marks the end.
When the fervor melts.
Thing which once were started to lose its essence.
A sense of dread seems to have no end.
Every last relic of the ever present's presence's remains absent.
Everything goes in shambles.
Trading the places with the one who writes fables.
When an instantiation becomes the writer.
It couldn't end all the things which were.
Depth of an instantiation fall short off the essential.
Their impacts aren't pivotal.
Only a reminder of a power.
Which could be harnessed by the unjaded.
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