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 unachievable.
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?
Perfectly projected prayers pushed to pamper the perceived perpetual protector.
So I crawl, I walk, I run, I fall and I rise, but still at the same juncture.
The one legged wheel with my emancipation has gained an endless puncture.
The ceaseless stabbings of fear in my conscience sometimes render me petrified to venture.
Yet I must be heard and would not 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.