The Withering Twig by RVL

Lively as the daylight; mighty as the knight,
Unfathomable strength of a young bud, 
Allows no one hinder its desire to come out;
No rain, no winter nor the strongest of the winds can ever thwart,
Its urge to rise amongst the shrubs;
If only it listens rather than snob,
Or hear the sobs in the unmerciful mob,
Of its root that nurtured its veins,
Since it sprung this sprig with throbs;
No thorn can hurt, no seas can drown,
No thunder nor lightning can ever warn;
As it sways with the storm of vile,
Towards blissful darkness 
Augmenting its selfishness;
Corrupting to the fullest this benighted twig;
And when it finds itself rotting,
with incurable Ganoderma;
It cannot help but weep;
Denies itself of sleep;
Comes home in tears and self-pity;
Chastised and condemned,
Doomed and secluded;
If only it hears the multitude of prayers, 
Of its roots bawling in tears;
Yearning to save it amidst the fears,
That any moment this twig will sunder;
Fade away and fall to its grave;
The thing unknown to this twig,
is the pain that its roots feel for itself;
Seventy-seven times than it senses,
Aggregated over the years;
Oh Lord will you hear the plea,
Of this twig adjacent to me?
If not, will you at least spare it,
The scars and pains on the days remain;
I have written this poem dedicated for my youngest brother. I have been supporting him on his studies the moment I started earning when I was still a student scholar. He was recently diagnosed with an incurable disease which made me and my poor mother die each day as we see his body deteriorate. 
This poem is about: 
My family


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