I am weak and vulnerable.
I long to arise like a fallen hero and be memorable.
My past is dirty and horrible.
My present questionable and my future seemingly unattainable.
My hope seems to be but a written parable.
Parables trapped in a fiery fleeting article.
I have become a substance of ridicule.
Yet I still believe in a miracle.
I refuse to mourn for my future.
The smiling maws of the preying vulture;
Gives me reasons to ponder.
Everywhere they lay carpets of danger.
Temptation crawling into my forsaken shelter.
Enemy nets awaiting my capture.
Sometimes I really wonder.
Will I ever reap the ultimate seed of rapture?
Did my perfectly projected prayers pamper not the perpetual protector?
I crawl, walk, run, fall and I arise, but I’m at the same juncture.
The one legged wheel with my liberty has gained an endless puncture.
The stabbings of fear in my mind often render me scared to venture.
Yet I must be heard and won’t be taken out of the matchless picture.
Surviving, fighting and conquering has now become my nature.
Envious claws lay bare to tear apart the sacred treasure.
But to be or not to be, lies only in the hands of my maker.

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