Beaten, bruised, broken frame

Thought of straightening it out

If not a change of breed,

Atleast a change of creed

Engulfing new grain,

A vessel of thoughts, a smear of ash

Embracing a novel tune

All, perhaps, too much too soon

Most of all, a new patron,

Through love, faith and hope

Or so he hoped,

Alas, perhaps a bit doped

The cloud of doubt hung above,

Akin to Damocles' sword

However not as sharp;

More a tangy melody of a harp

Something new, yet unturned,

No doubt it was exalting

But had he truly gained?

Forasmuch he was still pained 

Option still open,

Oozing crimson below five

Or just wait and sigh,

Till morning is nigh. . .