Remotely Queued

So long, So long has been his refrain From sinful wrong, Still his righteous paragons, now besieged in bane, Are seemingly unable to fuel this honest man’s motionless train His hands - only too close to the nearest chain. So futile, So futile has been his valorous voyage Traversing many a mile, That never has any laurel graced his life’s dreary pages Never has any triumph adorned the gates of this sage, His chest only just holds the overflowing rage. So patent is his spirit, irrefutable is his belief In his Lord, of whom he claims to be the son That the most incorrigible devotees of God May even question the existence of one. Forlorn, So forlorn has been his path That hopes have met scorn Still the heart of this godforsaken loner tames its fuming wrath For he won’t let the sun set on his yacht Which he will station only on the steps of reward. So long, For so long have his efforts yielded unjustifiable distress That his aching eyes long, That his jaded body pleads for success The taste of which has eluded the drying lips of his quest But so long, so long is the road before he rests…