If poverty was a man, I would fight him

Oh, wretched poverty, scourge of the soul,
A silent storm that takes its toll.
You strip the cloak from the shivering back,
And leave the heart in a ceaseless lack.

Hunger's howl stalks the empty night,
Eyes that dim for the want of light.
Children wander with dreams undone,
Their laughter muted, their battles unwon.

The noble hand, once firm to give,
Now trembles, unsure of how to live.
The proud brow bends beneath the yoke,
Of promises broken, of hopes that choke.

Oh, poverty, you test the wise,
You make the truthful weave their lies.
The bread of shame becomes their fare,
While hearts grow heavy with despair.

But know, O soul, this trial’s weight,
Is not the mark of eternal fate.
For He who gives can take away,
And change the night to the brightest day.

In every shadow, a lesson lies,
In every tear, the heart must rise.
The poor man's prayer shakes heaven's gate,
And calls for justice to counter fate.

So hold to patience, steadfast and strong,
Though poverty's road may seem so long.
The earth is wide, and His mercy vast,
This storm of anguish shall not last.

For wealth is fleeting, as winds that pass,
It withers like dew upon the grass.
True riches lie in the soul’s pure light,
Untouched by darkness, unbound by night.

O world, be warned of the price you pay,
When you let the helpless waste away.
The cries of the poor, the orphan's plea,
Rise as a testament to eternity.

For He, the Just, sees all unfold,
And weighs the deeds, both harsh and bold.
Beware the wrath of the meek who pray,
For their recompense shall not delay.