The Conquerors.

Each one a gem. A shining orb of pride, who, Midst dungeon-dark of alien age, Aspired to good. They saw the road. They caught the hidden shine amongst the slime And took a-hold. Grasping Hope they grappled up. And, wrenching each sin-laden limb From deep within, the climb began To Elevation. Though slowed with sick humanity's century-heavy load Of fallen man. The way was pained, Was stabbed with sharp and bruising stones of Self Oozing grudge, and greased with greed. And all the while, as upward peering Through the mists They groped in loveless gloom, they clung to need. Soul-sobbing frames. Set on search for healing flames Of full and statured life. They staggered on. But not alone, as through gross dark there surged A shaft of lifting light. A hearing ear was won. Now, showered with sun, celestial powered Which sparked with selfless joy, Upward soared. Their brilliance yet more brighter seems As earth's sad death-throes vomit gall. Their radiance beams. Enlightened truth emit's it's timeless news of hope. Ascending, they send forth a shout....... 'Existence is not what it seems'.