Standing beside an old brick church
A man who lost all hope
Escaping in deep thought
Navigating in the shadows.

The light inside dimed out
There was no victory, no spark
No place to turn back
He was a failure to his own son.

Walking into the holy temple
Feet dragging on the wooden floors
Hands sweating, trembling of fear
Mind blank from what to say.

Sitting beside a little boy
Memories of his son float back
“Sir, do you want a bowl of soup”
Blushing, the man replied “Yes, please.”

A taste of each spoon of soup
Warmed up inside of him
A man who lost a will to live
Found hope in his heart once more.