Your votary routine has never faultered - can it be altered?

The black hair on your head has began bearing few silver strands...

Misery loves company, but company is miserable.

Your heart has never loved another - not even your mother.

Your cold dark eyes have showed signs of lines...

Of all the things you hold dear, you're not dear to a thing.

Your nails are broken on your fingertips - from your teething nips.

The sighs you release show your restlessness...

You complain about life, you live to complain.

Your votary routine has crumbled beneath - a welcome wreath.