A soul is much like that of
a grape and when it has gone
far too long without affection,
deep heartfelt affection …

… which is the Moon …

… a raisin is the finished product.

The Sun leaves nothing untouched
as the grape, the soul, has become
withered and wrinkled.

Too drying, leaving a parched and
weathered shell what once was a
beautiful soul, the Sun reaps the
rewards and life falls asunder
beneath the golden touch of lies.

Not even Temperance, who so
delicately pours out the silvery
water beneath the Moon can
save such a withered soul. Time
marches onward, ever faithful
to that silent beat that only it
can hear.

A storm brews in the east,
threatening to spill its wake
unto all who seek to oppose
its tremendous force. Beware
of the gale force winds that
will take down even the strongest
of fortresses. Time has no friends,
nor does it harbour enemies.

The only thing left in the end
shall be a barren wasteland that
will bear no fruit.