By Dante Barkley
Benumbed by this cold-blooded world, I swing my bare limbs,
Fighting for those whose cries might fall in vain,
Oppressed by men of fruitless trees, who are only moved by their whims,
The righteous sometimes conform to evil, while others are contently slain.
Eventually, I will fatigue, thus protecting them no more,
Only watching, as they are stripped of their fruit.
These abandoned seedlings wither at such an immature stature;
As soon as they shoot, they are rooted from their roots.
As Death cues his mort, my tears accrue into streams,
Yet only flows temporarily, before the constant glacial gales,
Mutes all cries, and halts the swimming breams;
I regret acting on the whim which caused my arms to flail.