The Mirthful Struggle

The alley dark and mood grim,

That was what surrounded him.

No soul beside to lend a hand,

No joy, no laughter, a strange land.

Tears had rolled and left a trace,

Rivers of ashy grey, dried, ran over his face.

For the patriarch, slept in eternal rest,

And the lover left, it was the Lord’s test.

Courage and perseverance was called upon,

In the treacherous jungle, he was a mere fawn.

But sparkled his eyes with puerile ambition,

To change the world, he was on a mission.

Dark the alley was, if you can recall,

Each step he took was a vicious fall.

Diabolic spirits hovered above,

The naysayers gave him little love.

“I have a dream” said the young lad,

A chisel in his care is all he had.

’Tis not a ballad of tragedy I declaim,

Tis an ode to struggle, his rise to fame.

Failure young sire, is a transitory impediment,

Gravel to a mountain, a mere sediment.

Be not melancholic, I appeal to ye,

Cheer and mirth makes life, you see?

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