A pathetic man

A man, a singer, in his prime
A master both of word and rhyme
Was told that he would have to lose
His head or his  most precious shoes.
The man, outraged by such a claim
Gave in, however, to this game
For if a knife is at your throat
There is no time for fancy quotes.
The man walked home, the road was dark
His face was pale, his body stark,
He prayed to God for just one shoe
Yet no help came; The night still grew
Upon him like a frigid cloak
Upon his thirteenth step, he broke
He wailed at the empty sky
"Oh why!?", he cursed and cried. "Oh why?!"
"Oh why am I, an artist, thrown
Into the pits of hells unknown
For merely valuing my head?"
He tried to rise but fell instead.
"Oh why am I, a man of church,
Not done, not finished with my search,
Am frozen to this solid ground
And by these icy snowflakes bound?"
He cried and cried, yet no-one heard
Not even just a single word
Of what the poet yelled
Well, one had heard, but felt compelled
To let the man convene his wits
Instead of throwing childish fits
Alas, the man remained a wreck
And even when she went to check
He  still was blaming suns and gods
And the all-so-unfair odds.