Spirits drift in the Nocturne's bliss,
Awaiting the release of sleep's calming kiss.
A busy day brings about a weary mind,
With slumber's embrace their thoughts unwind.

Each night that passes bring a new wrinkle, a crease,
Each silver-hair reminds of fate's caprice.
Upon closing their eyes a wager made,
The spirit and flesh barter a trade.

Each slumber and waking comes with cost,
The stores of one's vigor are bled and lost.
When the toll price too costly for their final breath
In the end all do feel the cold bite of death.

- The Dirge-Bard