He crawls out of the mud,
starving for light,
no matter what the cost.

All he needs is an inkling,
just a tad,
just a moment,
just a rhythm,
To know he's winning.

Divinity,
he seeks
may be pure,
may be white,
but absent of light,
for the man in blight.

A great man doesn't fall from the sky,
He crawls out of the mud,
wet, raw, and ready to fight.