Fire gave me life.
Out of the corners of my newborn eyes I could see him standing there.
My blacksmith.
My father.
My creator.
He was cloaked in black, but not with clothes, with paint.
He told me that i was equal to a beautiful saint.
Oh father, what do you mean by this? I'm merely a servant, made to represent your glory.He responds that I'm unique. Perfect, in fact. I'm privileged. Yet cursed...
He made me, He aids me, He gives me my breath.
He takes me. He breaks me. And thus comes my death.
Good sir, thank you for giving me at least a glimpse at living.
Good sir, I'm sorry for sinning instead of giving.
He has burned me down to make a new,
therefore fire took my life.
Though purposely, I am one of few,
Who has met an **ending to strife.