Dying man

He was bit, cursed, spat on, slapped.
A man of pitiful existence, an abused shell.
His anger built, his rage pressed,
But like a dying man, he smiled and wondered,
Why the anger and rage, my happy days are numbered.
With a breath and a sigh, he waited for joy to be manifested.

His was struck by lightning, diseased, avoided.
A man of bad luck, born out of plight.
His grievance grew, his grudge for god surfaced,
But like a dying man, he smiled and wondered,
Why the grievance and grudges, my happy days are numbered.
With a breath and a sigh, he waited for joy to be manifested.

He was used, betrayed, unloved, ignored.
A daughter corrupted, and a spouse too un-contented.
His generosity unappreciated, his true love unrequited.
But like a dying man, he smiled and wondered,
Why feel sad and unwanted, my happy days are numbered.
With continual faith and unselfish love, he waited for joy to be manifested.

He served, sacrificed, lived and loved.
A man of great Inspiration, a rare case of existence.
He lay on his bed weak, people around wept his condition.
Now a dying man, he smiled and murmured,
Why the unhappiness, our happy days are numbered.
With tears in his eyes, he left as joy manifested.

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