How do we change ourselves
When we didn't make ourselves.
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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