Scream of a Man

I am a poor man
Living in a poor land
With a worse than poor chance
Of being in a less than poor stance.

My cat, so frail, is dying.
Meine Frau, my betrayal, is dying.
My sun, in morning, isn't rising.
My stream, in bliss, is drying.

So what will come of this twisted life?
Will Tragedy's crest be the end of mine?
Will Heaven's peace come at my time?
Or will I suffer, longing for that blinding shine?

Is Heaven's embrace what my soul will reach?
Or is it Hell's aura, with my soul to breach?
Winter's cold, a great feat to merely breathe.
The patterns of snow are random, a bleached out frigid beach.

No stories of warmth.
No recoveries were short.
No Tragedy was let to abort.
No signs of you, our dearest Lord.