Man crowns himself as the king of a world not made for him, an emperor of a shared kingdom.
On his head, a crown of thorns of wit, reason and naivety, that continues to tighten, impaling at his fragile skull, causing great agony and excruciating pain as he continues to butcher his way to attain dominion over all life, seas and land. His crown strikes fear into the heart of that which is most dangerous, deadly and baleful.
Weak is man who keeps creation in chaotic order, chaotic peace. Man’s voice echoes all corners, even the most hidden and preserved, of the earth. At once he has creation at his feet, the world in his hands. Crown glimmering with royalty, he appears divine as the ornament that merits him glory and respect pierces at every fiber. The stronger he becomes, the weaker he gets. Blood continues to gush from his head.
A battered king rests his feet gently on a battered earth. He grins, yet sadness surrounds the throne, knowing that the greater his kingdom on earth, the farther he is from the right hand of God. He trades all for power. Power that drives brother against brother, the unnatural against the natural. Naive, unsophisticated and simple, he seeks to be an emperor of a pestilent and hostile earth when he could have shared in friendship and had dominion over an eternal paradise, where his labors will bear fruits and his toils be rewarded.
Every breath man takes, he sighs thrice at the shortness of time he has left with his material joy under the guise of a twisted beauty that satisfies his base, culpable nature. Thus, he sits on a ignoble throne for an ignoble king. The heavy crown drags his head to the earth, forcing him to kiss the earth that birthed him, the soil that which he has complete dominion over.
For what he has is not his. He does not belong here. His home is not his home.