I did not come to this world willingly.
If I had known its bitter-sweet terrain,
I might have stayed unborn.
But here I am—walking, limping, surviving—
buried on crutches.
This is not metaphor.
This is the spiritual condition of the exiled soul.
I walk through a world clothed in the shadows of leopards—
predators in suits, policies with claws,
religions that crucify rather than resurrect.
Last night, I witnessed the crucifixion of faith.
Not in a cathedral, but in the alleyways of hunger.
Owls cried in human flesh,
and I could not will myself to sleep.
The feast continues—
while the masses starve in silence.
I am haunted by the vultures.
Not the birds, but the systems.
They circle the poor,
feasting on dignity,
feeding their empires with carcasses of forgotten lives.
And I?
I feed my soul from wasted life.
Not because I choose to,
but because the path I tread is long, lonely,
and littered with the bones of those who walked before me.
I am a chaplain in exile.
A poet with a cane.
A witness to the spiritual decay of nations.
I do not seek pity—
I seek awakening.
This article is not a cry for help.
It is a cry for truth.
It is a call to those who still believe
that justice is not a slogan,
but a sacrament.
Let the reader understand:
I am buried on crutches,
but I walk still.
And in walking, I testify.