*_HE WEAITED TILL THE END_*

*_HE WEAITED TILL THE END_* In the meadow where hopes cascades, Lies a soul, weary and old, His appearance Ignites pains that fade, With a trembling hands, soft and cold, He lived by patience, endurance, and more, Slept on a cold hard floor, with no food, Each day, a bettersweet pain suity his core, No one he could call, hence no good, His heart so pure, yet people ignore, Hope and prayers are always his mood, In crestfallen moment his figures adore, Thus, he succumb in pain he never withstood In Winter night, he freezes for cold, With no shelter, nor a warmth to keep, His soul weak, worn and Old, He lacks a single cup, for him to sip, Pain engulfed, treas falls, To keep holdings the echo of what's lost, Day and night, he awaits the call, For when he will be free, and spend on his cost, But only time can tell it all, To gain back what is lost, And in every wait, laughter stalls And in this crescent night, He will stand, either one way or the other. *©® Sikiru Abdullateef oyelami ✍️*