Preach to me his rotting legacy
His crumbling fortress on wobbly stilts
His home amongst a fantastic image
Still laid amidst a canopy of leaves.
Pity a soul who has never loved
Abandoned to invent his own stimulation
To fantasize over things that can never be
There is no contempt in this vessel
No malevolence, or fulfillment
But there is a groan for contentment
It can never be.
Ostracized
He plays with the idea
Of living comfortably, humbly
While still making a change
Chiseling his story into the harbor stone
Overlapped by aquatic growth
Draped in the feces of the gulls
But the tale winds through every one.
The irony of the favored ones
The blessed are invited to dine
The servants are fed the crumbs
But he is not fed at all
And he has the greatest story.
A heart to offer.
A sacrifice to make.
His is a sweet passing scent
A wisp without a trail
A life, a love, but mere luxury
In light of others' suffering
And do the quakes shake him violently?
Does the mist depress his soul?
For the sake of this mission
He has rightfully served
Be it a whisper or a shout
Be it a breeze or a gale
His spirit shall find him rest
And leave his rotting legacy for his home.
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