A king isn’t born. He is made. By steel and suffering.
He must know, how to hurt those, he loves the most. A suffocating love.
Love that drive fear in his men. Fear makes men fight better.
Fight. Fight to the posterity, where fate is beautiful.
It’s powerful and cruel.
No human could be too powerful, too beautiful, without disasters befalling.
It laughs, when you rise to high.
And, crushes everything, built with your gathering moments.
The glory it gives you, at the end, it takes away.
One more meaningless battle with the senses, cursed by your brightness of pomp.