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What do you think of this poem about a depressed grandmother? - whats the handle on the side of my fireplace

Blind Assassin

Is that your grandmother here, sitting on a chair beside the fireplace, by clicking on my hands, so lost and depressed. With age, I became one, with age, I was weak, over the years melt I sink deeper and deeper into me.

I try to smile politely and sat down beside me and pretended to notice, but in truth I'm lost, also lost his announcement, it has lost with blue eyes, his sweet smile and compassionate.

I have not moved from this chair, this chair in my home, where my soul rests, my mind wanders without borders.

I thought the wonderful things in this chair, not the ideas and plans that never expected to believe, that, until it is too late.

It seems her years since the last time you leave the chair, but I'm ready, I know, has finally taken the time

Slowly he rose, a flash of pain strikes, the tired muscles which have left so long, I now looked ready to fulfill his duty.

Silently, I climbed the wooden stairs, the attention ofFulham do not fall into darkness, to be so careful not to disturb my big projects. I know which room is yours, I know where to sleep, where his last breath will be.

I gently turned the doorknob to her room with the quietist of steps that do not awaken, my dear son.

The last time I saw the fine golden hair and pale skin, last time I look at a life that will be more.

I slowly raised the knife, knowing that my phone is almost complete. Then, savage, brutal, and regrets not Push down and deep in your heart for life, a heart of love, if the company runs cold.

I slide back in my chair by his hands, then lost and depressed than ever. My chair is my home, after all, no one expected, not an old woman like me.