The Budding Soul Re-Post

The shadows from his younger days shake his resolve, and make a mockery of time 'til time be lost to moments of bewilderment, ne'er to evolve, they bounce and bluster errantly, much to his cost. Shades and silences, outbursts of ungoverned rage, cruelty breeds rancor, even in the meek at heart, kept and restricted, like a creature in a cage, no literature for him, gentility or art. Dissimulation, trickery and guile he plies as tools to engineer self-preservation, he tells quaint versions of the truth, and bald-faced lies, so to avoid the whip and recrimination. Childhood is the birthplace of hope and mirth not fear and perturbation for the budding soul, a testament to love where supplicants may dwell; not tyranny or willfulness, a wayward goal. Shun darkness, disillusion, from God's green earth, cast demons, evil thinkers to the depths of hell.