Such pain humanity can sometimes bear,
the price untenable without a view
to contradict the sorrow, heal the sick
of mind and soul. I'll write what I deem best
to meet a hurting heart on its own terms.
The dim-lit alley holds no fear. A rag,
a cardboard house; no unclean hand repels.
More likely that a mansion on a hill
can frighten me, for I see ghosts inside
named Greed, and Lust, and Labelling the Poor.
Christ walked with lepers, loved a prostitute;
God grant me just one billionth of His worth,
long days to prosper in my goal with pen,
humility in plenty not to judge
some genre too unlofty for to scribe.
If what my plume creates upon a page
is brotherhood among we fallen saints,
tis then I'll know I have achieved in life
a legacy beyond my wildest dreams,
and I can die most modest, yet fulfilled.