The Beggar

the battered tattered lady
sits quiet on her box
collects her coins in a paper cup
rags covering her locks

photos of children on display
edges bent and torn
faces reflecting hopelessness
weathered and forlorn

judgment is not up to me
is her history false or true
I drop some coins into the cup
it's all that I can do

my wheelie is my living space
in this prison I am free
there's always someone in the world
who has it worse than me



Poetry by Wumbulu
Read 672 times
Written on 2019-05-19 at 02:21

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