The artiste's window gradually falling down
Holds the view of the prince's throne and crown
The ordered maidens, freely, the palace roams
Like leaves in autumn, dry, litter the roads
“Fall on your wounded knees and withered faith”,
The new king speaks into the poor man’s face.
“I precede you on earth, would still up there”
And thus! The pauper’s hope replaced with fear.
The painter’s canvass slowly would make sense,
But only after seeming meaningless.
Instructed strokes of exotic brushes -
- All well worked by the artist’s lines in crossing.
In turns and shifts, swift swings and bad skitters,
Thorns and arrows pour down like blizzard in winter.
They pour upon him like a war ground victim
Even when all evil should be out of season.
Still life’s vile tenderness unfolds a new trick,
Of all things on earth, he was the “lucky” pick,
It never fails to be true to him each time,
- Without him having to pay a wee dime.
Would pass the night wherever it found him,
Bypass, Roadside, however, he’d rest still.
He’d greet the dawn with his ominous tear,
And string some words into one in pray-er.
What life would hold again in a new day?
His dreams, through pain, can board a flight away.
So little he is, inside his meek heart,
Still deprived of all but his meager lads.
The pauper’s tears catch each dust the wheels have cast
The wheels of pride, and guile that would always pass
His wailing voice thrust swords into caring hearts
Calls for heaven (the place), since life on earth’s aghast.