Through It All
Shall he be cut off,
A wanderer of sight
Fulfilling but emptiness
A scattered figure
A corpse with meager instinct,
A shell of anatomy
Desolate like deserts beneath sun.
Feet, lacerated by grains,
Wounds to fester in absence of whole,
A man led in torture but yet sees truth
But removed be its company
A hand among the mirage
A gallery of bodies,
Dare be such a hand,
A whip awaits,
But shall he rise
Or find himself in the perpetual,
A crime, playing as if it be futile.
How brutal be the palm to grasp,
Though a wanderer of sight like many,
May he still be in resilience
Though he be treated, as a David of present.