As the morning sun generously spreads her warmth and tries to comfort a grieving and beaten man
Night's misery and the dwelling through wrecking thoughts
Persist in the hostage of this wandering father
By killing every bit of hope for a reunification with his long lost family –murdered by his hands
His wrists are still to slit
Shapeless as the fog reigning over his kingdom
Is his golden and forgotten throne
Yesterday father and godlike
Now insignificant and mere existent since he no longer carries the sun
Only a weak breath testifies a deteriorating presence
The tears of this king flood the memories of mirth as a silent execution and his maximum sorrow
Create infinite persecution and necessary torment
Shattered faces form the fundamentals of his burnt and abandoned realm
Sole vilification of self and the need to end life's desolation
Nothing to hold but the pillows with which he took the breath of his children
The convulsions of their little limbs endured a torturing eternity
Nevertheless, he persisted while they struggled to fill their lungs with precious and bare air
Assassinated by their most trustworthy
Swallowed their lives
Consumed by their creator
Burned by an unmistakable resentment and quenched by the tears of an inescapable sorrow
Throughout the ashes of its existence the harsh northern wind rages
And irrevocably guides his last memories of security
Towards digestion through oblivion
He welcomes further torture through the talons of life and through deaths rejection
Lost in existence and in the weight of repentance
An inescapable suffering of his own creation
Indestructible, yet devastation architecture
And in the ever-filling emptiness
He itself becomes weightless and therefore invisible to self
Now insignificant and mere existent since he no longer carries the sun
Only a weak breath testifies a deteriorating presence
The tears of this king flood the memories of mirth as a silent execution and his maximum sorrow
Create infinite persecution and necessary torment
Shattered faces form the fundamentals of his burnt and abandoned realm
Sole vilification of self and the need to end life's desolation
Nothing to hold but the pillows with which he took the breath of his children
The convulsions of their little limbs endured a torturing eternity
His wrists are still to be slit
He shall never sleep again
He shall never be able to die
For life is his endless torment
For life is the gift that keeps on giving
His wrists are still to slit