The man I am

The man I am,  

whispers faint promises,  

vows of change that falter  

like echoes lost in hollow winds.  

Each word a fragile shell,  

hollow as the silence it leaves behind.  

Guilt wraps its weighty arms,  

and he wrestles it, clumsy and blind.  

He drowns the ache  

in foolish, fleeting escapes—  

binging, endless scrolling,  

the void never filled,  

each attempt a deeper ache.  

His dreams, boundless and pristine,  

oh, how grand they gleam!  

Yet they shimmer like mirages,  

a pipe dream's tease.  

He knows the path,  

the steps set clearly before him,  

but still, his feet remain rooted,  

stubborn as stone.  

Has such a man ever lived,  

burdened by more than the plate could bear?  

He tries to run—  

but where to? Which way?  

The feast waits before him,  

his for the taking,  

its fate in his trembling hands.  

Will he grasp it fresh,  

ripe with promise?  

Or let mould consume it,  

shadowed patches of green decay  

creeping along its edges?  

The choice is his,  

a fierce conflict carved  

between soul and flesh,  

a battle of worlds entwined.  

Fight, man—  

this war is yours to win.  

The soul murmurs low, a gentle plea:  

"Choose redemption."