Another Monday, a myriad of colors came through the stain glass window, every wakening moment an eternity, a slow monotonous climb leading to a finite result, nothing, for him at least. If there was a God, and conclusively it seemed there was, well, he didn’t take charity and he knew there was no penance for genocide, for no right can undo a wrong, for even if you heal one-hundred thousand, the glassy eyes of a small girl lying along a river bank with a crimson stream feeding the fish, her parents hung above her, that never will leave you. He knew,.. it never had.
As opulence surrounded a poor man, he went to his desk and wrote the last thing he would write in this world, and if there was another,.. perhaps he would no longer be the man he became. A sigh escaped his lips and the quite sound of a quill scratching on paper stopped every-so often for the need to dip the tool, for that’s all it was, just like man, a tool to be used then,.. no he needed to think not as he was but whom he remembered, and wished to be like.
“The last memoir of Lothal Smith~ Let the last memory of me be used in textbooks, papers and for those who are learned to teach those who are not the one simple truth, in my wealth, my kingdoms, my harems, and my vain appearance there is and was no joy, for man has always searched for acceptance, but I would cation you to look instead for those things that cannot be taken from you, peace, serenity, joy, and memories of love. For all my life, I have found and sought lust, wealth, and power. It brings a deeper emptiness after the deed is said and done then you can possibly imagine. Though there are and will be those like me who cast off the wisdom of those who were before I pray you return to words of wisdom in your age, and hope you live long enough to do so. For many I had foolishly called friend, for one is not your friend if they are a lover of themselves, died along the same path it is that I have tread.
May I be remembered for wisdom and not wealth. ~Lordian the hand of death.