I am yet a brooding memory
One that belives not in its own reminiscing.
A cowardly writer hungry for greateness
Yet disgustingly satiated with the fear of perils that those stories are to be found in.
An unskilled orator drowning in his own overwhelming depths
Yet knows not the human speech.
A visionary of love that he wishes to bestow upon humanity
Yet corrupted to not cross over its illusions.
A deluded self that knows the ways to aggrandized his own superiority above rest
Yet is shackled in his own chain of nothingness.
A benevolent soul that lives his life for nothing but other’s happiness
Yet knows that his benevolence in itself is his selfish need
For he feeds off the warmth of gratitude
That keeps his dying soul alive.