Clipped wings, poor sight, weak limbs,
Like a child embarking on first steps,
Frailed by inadequacies and false beliefs,
My humanity a plague to my inner Pharaoh,
My stained hands corrupting all they touch,
Addicted to self, acquisition a bottomless pit,
Death beckons, my potential a sleeping lion,
As days turn into nights, as seasons come and go,
My chances to manifest get slimmer and slimmer,
The baton in my hand gains a life of its own,
We shall not be the weakest link, it says,
Faster, stronger Alex! Time is afoot behind us,
Yet even at my best, distractions abound,
Like dancing in a burning room, a fool’s dance,
Like chewing on wild berries, a child’s prance,
Emeralds mean nothing to a haggard beggar,
And purpose means nothing to a lost soul,
To manifest, the obscure triumphs are gold,
Through them, I rise above my frailties,
A kind word, a selfless gesture, a smile bestowed,
If through children, a kingdom is promised,
Then though a child-like spirit, manifest I shall.