Wimpy

He walks the street with shoulders curled,
A timid soul in a world that whirls,
His voice a whisper, soft and low,
Like summer rain on pavements slow.

He shies from conflict, shuns the fray,
Prefers the quiet of each day,
His courage hides behind a grin,
A wimpy heart that dares not win.

Yet in his eyes a gentle fire,
A kindness that will not expire,
For though he’s meek, he bears the weight
Of compassion, soft as silk, innate.

So let the bold march fierce and loud,
While wimpy whispers pierce the crowd—
Not weak, but tender, not meek, but kind,
A quiet strength the world can’t find.