THE BANE OF A CRIPPLED MAN

A hole in the side that can never heal,
A wound within that can never seal.
O wandering spirits, hear this mournful tale,
Never whispered or heard by the ill or hale.

The touch of others, he shun and abhor
Like the careless hiss of a roaming viper,
For darkness is his only comforter,
Depriving him of peace and succor.

The street is his only haven
Where he can safely slumber,
And lay the everlasting burden
He carries on his weak shoulders.

The scraps of men does he eat,
The puddle by the road does he drink,
Always praying for the sky to pour down their tears
That he may comfort them with his misery and fears.

© Okunola Peace.