Empty.

I was writing a tale of mystery, then you came and rewrite it into reality.

"He was a soul living solitary,
nothing in a mind of an ordinary.

Traces of his are now arbitrary,
his ending may vary.

His existence was almost imaginary.
Not even a word in a destiny.

But he was a soul that knew no worry.
He had no sorry, die in misery.

Not even a breath left to carry,
not even a glimpse in a memory.

The wilderness of the uncertainty,
was he just a fantasy?"