• Pride


    With wings dusty from the ages,
    His hair long and shining through the dirt of time,
    With drops of darkness on his wings and hair of white
    And with eyes like the abyss.

    He sits upon a throne of ruins
    With ,,mirrors” lined up in front of him,
    He looks down on the ,,lavish” floor
    And grins satisfied upon himself.

    He looks up playfully,
    all too innocent is his appearance,
    like a child without sin,
    but his words betray his looks.
    He looks up at the ,,golden” ceiling
    That shows his reflection, like everything else,
    He opens his mouth and speaks,
    His voice melodic and most beautiful except the words
    Dripping with malice:

    ,,He who calls himself creator,
    Your creation bows before me,
    And you should not be all too surprised,
    For I am your masterpiece.

    But I play by my own rules
    And I bow to no one,
    You may have made me
    But I outdo you, ,,dearest” ,,father”.”

    He starts laughing,
    His laughter demonic,
    And you know he is not sinless,
    But far from it.

    He sits on rubble and stone as his throne,
    Looking at broken shields that reflect himself
    He looks down and smirks
    To the floor of still blood.

    And he looks up at the ceiling
    That is only a polished part of the cavern…

    Child of Pride, so graceful he is
    But his eyes are so clouded
    That he does not see
    The wasteland
    And instead seas a lavish palace.
    While the ceiling brakes a bit
    Every now and then.