The story begins with a crying baby,

his tears being dried by the hands of a dying mother,

near his dead father who kept the vow of his wedding band,

and sheltered them both, till death did he part,

mother and father ripped away,

blow by blow.

The bloody mess of his parents demise,

left the boy dressed in sorrow,

and left many tomorrows tainted

with despair. Even when he dared to leave

The lair of his woe, the sun and the moon

only reinforced his slump,

blow by blow.

The years ticked by, as they tend to do,

we all thought that perhaps—time would mend;

But disaster stuck to him like grime,

often leaving him the sitting duck

for another’s anger to wail upon him,

blow by blow.

Through foster homes he tumbled,

and tossed, bumbling about as the fool,

a punching bag for greater powers.

The reaper seen that day ago, always dragged behind him,

taking what joy may find him,

blow by blow.

Then one day, a Monday it was,

Came a pay-day, a prayer perhaps answered,

Or so the Kid, no longer a boy; thought.

There was a grand-dad an’ grand-ma,

That beckoned with a smile,

‘Come to Misty Valley’

The card was signed,

with love.

Would this be the end of the pounding hammer?