A spot in the lot

His mission to the city was clear-

Find fortune, make marks and have relevance

In their rat- race society.

Dead set to succed

He got articled

For six free- labour months

And so, shackled to a loom

He worked round the clock

But his light was punched out on dudty

By a fall from a tree

The spinal cord, snapped

Leaving a pair of lifeless legs

His manly spirit in torture laboured

As all turned a cold shoulder

Sweeping him into a world of hatred

But for the restoration from rehabilitation

Looking beyond the vagaries

He turned sweet and caught fire again,

So, Greg the lame became a poet, leader, and coun sellor.

While the world in wonder watched.

His confinement in solitude impressed by the

Limp feet

Left indelible prints.