Is there no help for the Widow’s son?

It is an old story,
A story that was found mostly lost,
It is a new story,
A story that is strangely familiar…

I have no illusions
I live on earth, a perilous place,
Whose inhabitants are oceans of deviance!
Especially adept in all matters malice…

The world is sometimes dark… not for want of light,
But a retrogressive belief, that revealing ourselves in the cover of night is liberating!
As the screens that now rule us, accosting our already tender eyes, would have us believe…
Yet someone, somewhere watching the news; knows all too well what really happened.

Beset,
Ignorance slashes at me,
Fanatics have drained me,
Tyranny has set himself perilously close to my mind…

On the small path of respite,
That lies in-between what is expected of me and what I expect of myself,
I am free of the burden,
Of finding help for the widow’s son.

Black Widow