From under the city light,
the embers of a lost life appear,
asking me to do what is right,
but her image obscures the plea I barely hear.
Devoid of humane contact, walking,
like a scarred ghost, through a city that passes her by,
she has forgotten the art of talking;
she won’t look me in the eye.
What happened to her hopes?
Who destroyed her dreams?
Why must she now desperately grope
for life? There are still half a million to ignore her screams.
A dollar is her only need,
one hundred cents to just get by,
or perhaps for the drugs that let her concede.
She’ll get high, then find another to believe her lie.
Dylan Moore, january 28, 2009
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