Sometimes False Hope is Better Than Having to Face Reality...

His broken body begs for more
than what it seems he has in store
and all these words are moot at best...
so by extension, thou art blest

by knowing not this withered soul
of squalid existence and dull
countenance, who cannot help
when all around loose lifeless yelps,

pleading for his guidance, "true."
Now know these blessings, lucky few...
or faceless, countless... (that's unclear,
unlike his ever present fear).

Still, count yourselves as better built
than he who no one here has helped...
or he who's not sought for release
from woes he knows so there's no peace.

(And burdening another's ear
is less release than guilt that here
lies less a beast of valor, lest
a withered, worried pup to rest.)

So in these moot and muted moods
he hides in words whilst he alludes
to truer things that trouble he,
betrayed by his autonomy.