His Walls Bled Red Poem by Timothy Quevedo

Born in hatred,
Conceived in considerence,
His burned walls bled red,
Scars from the bitterness,
Running from the past,
Hoping to find the present,
Searching miles vast,
His hands reaching for faith so hesitant,
He's asking himself 'why'?
'was it worth all this time'?
In a sense he admits his return,
Off to finish the last broken bridge to burn,
Sovereign has given up, it's his final turn,
He shattered the pieces in a matter of time,
Just past a quarter till nine,
He's broken and fixed with the same tricks,
And yet he's turning out fine,
No longer in the sea of confusion,
He can finally admit that he's morally human.