Staring at the half hanging ceiling
and the years of worn out paint peeling
leaving the wall with an unwelcoming feeling
like the bruises on one's skin from days of hard labouring

worn and grey with age's grouting
persistent damp dark molds sprouting
like a shadow on the verge of eating
the small space with nothing to place of a poor living

with not a morsel to eat and eyes tired from hours of weeping
still,  the hands reaching to tend and feed the dog who is bleeding
and yet not to a soul he speaks of his life's dreading
but to God alone he stands to plead.