The primordial son flees full of sadness and despair,
running towards the breeze, away from the communal flare.
He ends up in a frozen zone barren from life, full of rue,
and sits atop an icicle throne to try and think things through.
The cold is swift and sharp, cutting through skin like a knife
and the primordial son cries out in pain, longing for an end to his life.
But as the numbing cold ravages the son's body, a new warmth fills his chest acting as a shoddy.
A warmth that doesn't judge, doesn't betray, doesn't hurt or destroy. Like when the stomach rumbles in order for the void to cloy.
The primordial son cries again not of sadness, but of cheer:
"Finally, I'm saved!" he said "My salvation is here!"
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