The mendicant squats
with a cold, blank stare,
leaving her fumes
in the rancid air.

Cigarette placed
between cold, chapped lips,
unable to loosen
the vice from her grip.

Crone of the street corner,
palms outstretched,
should pedestrian pause
to pity the wretch.

Tightly swaddled
in soiled clothes,
a sight for passersby
to loathe.

Was this ever a babe
in a cradle, rocked?
Was hers ever a door
on which love knocked?

Was ever a rose
placed in her hand?
Or do thorns only thrive
in the shadowlands?

None to observe
the ebb and tide,
none to explore
when childhood died.

None to bandage
the festering wound,
when the lifeblood drained
from her youth too soon.

Mental anguish,
stark despair.
Turn out the light.
For who will care?

The mendicant
will take her leave,
with none to notice,
none to grieve…