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The Life of a Poor Family
March 20, 2015
Laying, am I, on a bed of torn sheets;
The cold, it enters, through broken walls
And cracked windows, holes in the roof.
And dreaming, am I, of gowns and balls,
Though the burden of poverty is mine to hold.
Oh, the breeze brings it's frost,
Into the rubble of my house,
It's old beauty lost.
And fun, also, is now absent
In this old house of mine
The children are time's captives,
Have passed, none to laugh or whine.
And, soon, too, from this world I'll die
And from the grave, with my children, I'll fly.
© Jessica M., Marblehead, MA
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