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THE MAKEOVER


The house he occupies still breathes
Though haggard, it's not trashed
He and his house seemed outcast to many
Once a gentle part of the landscape
Those features fair, soon became gaunt and sallow
He was ravaged by his ravenous hunger for opiates
By degrees, his hearing, his sight
His sense of smell and taste waned
Little strokes fell lofty oaks.
Those who once knew him, watched
Slowly, he kept vanishing like visions in the night.

Does afflictions warrants mercy?
When he had cried inside from pangs of hurt
His Maker bid him to rise.
He heard drums beckoning, and dance he did
No more anguish, bitterness, and woe
He felt earth's soothing touch
From soul of his feet on up
He took small steps, looked up at start
Shining with moon light, on warm summer night
In the distance, he could see glow of his house
Touched by his Maker's tender hands
His footprints were fit for others to follow
For his present to himself turned guide
Steering him on the straight and narrow.

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