A lonely traveler then, ‘twixt birth and death—

That odyssey of hope and dreams called life;

From primal scream until the final breath,

A pilgrimage replete with bloody strife;

A gauntlet there of tribulation run—

So beaten, bound—by every word disgraced;

More battles seeming lost than those fair won

And even night’s reprieve, by fret erased.

Yet comes the morning with the waxing light

To vanquish shadows and to spirits warm,

Slaying the dragons that beset the night,

And salving souls with faith’s eternal balm.

Here though I greet the world with gaze distrait,

I look on you and grant that hell can wait.