The Boy Made Out of Soil & Blood
A boy made of soot and soil,
blood of fire, temperament at boil,
His dreams and wants lie ahead,
Prepared with fortune, crowned on his head,
His tales of toil, belie the truth
He writes, reads like the book of Revelations,
But grasped within lies his pen,
Commandeered from above, divinely sent,
Within this tool, the offer of life,
Repeatedly rejected, he blindly fights,
Instead he authors personal demise,
Seeking his 'death rattle',
Subduing natural rights,
What he weaves, is what he sees,
Warped and molded, life seethes,
of disingenuous problems, sloth, lust,
He relishes it all, he is forced to be,
The boy made of soil and blood,
Heated through jealousy, ignorance he claims,
The misery he bestows transcends the game,
But at the end of the pen birthing history and fate
Lies fingers made of earth, nails of slate,
His wishes of helplessness are refused to be heard,
The boy who writes, sits at the top of the world.
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