An Ode to the Weary

There is, just now, some poor weary soul

with heart full of doubt, unsure where to go

who ponders, so surely, "Is life just this?"

emptiness moaning, "What is there to miss?"

in one long struggle, where day after day they return to the end, same words to say

This ode is to them, for still they come back

no matter how vile or dark the attack;

though often doubted by critics disguised

left more the lonely when judged and despised;

while yes, helped by friends, those who understand,

demean not their struggle, all they withstand

Remember, all have a single life left,

one robbed by darkness is thus quite the theft,

to withhold compassion when it is free

is simply one thing that never needs be

so join, kindly, this ode to the weary

if they're not you, they're one you hold dearly