Dying stoic

What is this reality? A stoics path here ends... But was the witness as settled as the afflicted.
This firm spirit now departing from a barren table for the vultures.
A spirit unwilling to enter the nightmares we invite, nightmares that become us.
The stoic dies, intimate with lack. In some parallel universe the same young child dies among the new wheat, plough in hand.
His last breaths a soft melody for the fresh crops.
Alas in this world a desert has swallowed him.
What is this reality in which pain is tamed? In which suffering is neglected?
Graceful in the face of burning fields and stolen yields, I wish to hold your forgotten martyrdom and lend it to the kings of industries.
Postcards from hell are painted on the inner walls of his young mind, this dying stoic, this dry child.
Despite the illness and biting flies...
Glimpses of a brighter world in the dying stoics eyes, heavens hopes all stored in the attic of his dreams.
The rich seem furnish little, their desires are unfortunate and unclean.