In the midst of wise council,
A saying echos in the halls,
Ringing perpetually to Pierce my flesh,
"A man that dies without honor,
Is a man who lived without discipline"
For like a flower without deep roots,
He's taken by the whims of the wind.
Tossed to & fro,
At the mercy of what surrounds him.
Unable to decide what fruits to bear,
Planting seeds with no intention to harvest,
Scattered by ambitions in ambiguous desires,
Divided by the disharmony within him.
For the taste of temporary pain,
Is demonised in his eyes, he cannot bear it.
Yet the grave welcomes him anyway,
Because in here the soil holds all the glory.
For everyone becomes just a man,
But beyond the grave,
Those soaked in principles
Gains the esteem of Angels
For they will tell his story.

© fruitfulodyssey