She is homeless. She is not old. The city’s morning dew is of life’s drink. For she runs her thin finger across widow pane for taste. Today, middle of dawn, she moves upon the sidewalk as dungeon floor. Yet, she breathes a touch of content ; she is under free sunlight. She believes all ends have applause even if clapped by two hands. Though her life may be short, her living days are of a slow clock encased in sorrow. Only in sleep is beauty’s dream. Awake, hours of hell; her small weapon,little hope…. So, clad in hand-washed rags. She roams the city, streets giving up little treat; hard to feed misery…. When night.. She’ll look for a star. It never has splendor. She speaks up to it, “my prison star”…. Oh, she prays…. Down to knees in alleyway and nothing more. Her prayer, “what use riches, for I owe Alone and Sad”…. She befriend’s chapels. Sits there watching candles die; die in silence, “so shall I “…. By the stone wall of Central Park. So small the sound. The Fall leaf snaps…. slowly gliding down next to her…. She stares at it…. “Now you belong to nowhere.. as I”.
By: George Martorano