the 1st BOOK of thum

Tour de Forced

He was so completely fed up.
	They made him walk the path for literally years
		from the painstaking beginning
		near to the death-tolling end.
He dared not complain of the lacking.
	Imprinted with thoughts of floods, 
		drowning in sorrow but still alive, 
		he longed to enjoy the life.
He sought, but only found lies.
	The sordid sentinels beat him down; 
		each contact more of less pain, 
		like a bur in the horse’s hide.
He doubted existing beyond cold pliability.
	Blame was concentrated through the years,
		yet the brain convulsed past it each day 
		and confined any musky contempt.
He knew now he felt so hell-smitten.
	A path began and stairways skewed, 
		where his outlet road kept straight, 
		yet they refused to end forth-travel.
He never lost any of his wisdom.
	His memories still held clear and tight, 
		and never lost any teeth, 
		so what did that say of him?
He wouldn’t befall anyone, no matter what.
	It was truly made clear enough to them; 
		he sat and refused any bribe glamour 
		even if they paved the path with gold.
He had no intent to fit into the plan.
	As many times as they had tried, 
		the attempts were all in vain,
		as it was so obvious — apparent.
He only thought of it as a job.