Essy The Poet

At thirty-Six  The man, the shepherd, the priest; so gentle, never raised his fist.  Stands taller than most, but not with without cost  On his chest hangs a silver cross, a long-term consort of his. Be not beguiled, for he seems glamorous, in the laces of Rome.  His heart has been broken, into thirty-six thousand pieces,  Yet holding on to the cross for solace, he grapples on.  His faith has been interrogated, into thirty-six thousand shreds of doubt, Yet holding on to the Holy cross for solace, he grapples on.  His actions have been scrutinized, in lenses multiples of thirty- six,  Yet holding on to the cross for solace, he grapples on.  His nights have sometimes dragged, lonely and lengthy hours seeming like thirty-six, Yet holding on to the cross for solace, he grapples on.  His dreams have been thwarted, voices of intimidation far beyond thousands of thirty-sixes,  Yet holding on to the cross for solace, he grapples on. His encounters amidst four Popes, having to adjust to change