Bandy Legged Drunk by Jones R. Ayuwo

There he stands outstretched arms that offer relief
Causing our weary hearts to yearn and strive for a little
more.
Always a little more.
The glittering jewels of his bedazzled fingers ignite passions
Deeply buried within the recesses of our byzantine nature.
As He totters, tentatively, temptingly
 Just within the grasp of our sight,
Just beyond the grasp of our fingers,
Try as we might.
With bandy legs he totters before us, leading that we may
follow.
But how can one, being of sound mind, consummately
adhere to the trail
Of one so detached from reality that he may be mocked as
the village drunk?
This is the very worst of the evils and despair that has
accosted our race
From the great perils of Jason and his golden fleece
Down to the travails of Igodo and his band.
Despair and excruciating agony assail the mind and body;
Despair encloses the mind in the daunting cage of its grasp
While agony racks the body to the height of despondency
Where you feel you definitely can feel no more and then you
feel some more.
It is at this opportune moment that the worst begins;
The aching heart.
 This metaphorical citadel of feelings and emotions begins a
tumultuous overflow
Churning out bite after bite of sweet memory from the
memory card of the body.
This is when he appears on the horizon, taking your tortured
hands
And whispering words of optimism - barren optimism.
Knowledge is the apex of despair.
Looking up from the dark pits of anguish into the dim and
waning
Light of hope that fills your fading sight and illuminates the
heart.
The knowledge that there is no means of escape, no broom
upon
Which one can fly to the blue moonlight like the famous
wizards of
J. K. Rowling. This is truly what ties us down, what bellies
our courage
And undermines our strength.
This however, does not advocate for the castigation of the
bandy legged drunkard
He is the adrenaline that keeps us going
The stimulant that revitalizes our body and disincarcerates
the mind
His faltering footsteps, the only life line to which we cling
That we might not lose ourselves to the maelstrom of
horrors in this life.
Hope, our bandy legged tottering drunk.