A Soul More Unfortunate

Not having enough to eat, Water being a distant dream, Heat becomes like an ex-lover, Who refuses to stay, it seems.

The Poor Man finishes his tales, And the Room sighs with deep exhales. “Who could be more unfortunate than him?” They all Wonder. The room’s silence creates a loud thunder, And nullifies all doubt and blunder.

But there is a soul more unfortunate. Summed up whose life can be as, A Tragedy of Hate.

That soul is alone, That soul is prone, To Hate his self-own. Has no where he can belong, To feel just a little bit strong. He longs only for the Tombstone.

The soul more Unfortunate, Living a Tragedy of Hate.

When a child comes into the world, His biggest need is a safe Hand to hold, A hand which makes him feel welcomed. But when that hand is abused, the child is abused.

And abuse is the robber of the greatest wealth of God, Love.

With time the treasury of Love empties. Then what business does Hope have, to stick around?

Most remain like this, Until they can’t.

Some fill the Void with Hate. And become the soul Most Unfortunate

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