The Truth




She sits motionless, huddled in the corner of a doorway to nowhere.

Long gnarled strands of gray partially conceal her empty blue eyes.

She bothers not to raise her head at the sound of hurried footsteps.

For she knows they only scuffle by, never daring to stop at her feet.

As the cold autumn wind swirls violently within her three walls,

The hardened stone beneath her withered frame offers little comfort.



Spoiled teens mock her in vain as she converses with ghosts beside her.

But why shouldn’t she speak to memories when only they listen?

Occasionally hardened souls shake their heads to force her into shame.

Yet from within their hands they harness the power to restore her hope.

Time after time, everyone, every day, turn their backs to her in disgrace.

She can not help herself and they refuse to lift her up. So who is to blame?



She was once a mother, daughter, sister and wife,

Full of passion, life, laughter and undying faith

Are we ignorant enough to believe she was never one of us?

Why? Is it easier to think she was born in a box?

It is us who turn our heads, ashamed to look in her eyes.

For we suffer from the weight of our own conscience, our shame.