I was richer on the street than
any riche who swung his wrist
like a pendulum swaying like
others owed them respect.

Throwing leaves of wealth at
us thinking we were migrant
gardeners picking, cleaning up
there garden of smirking pity.

But while they slumber in sheets
of old slave mills. I have gratitude
that my sheets are full of my pain.
Full of tears, on cold woeful nights.

I collect myself in dignity of living
below others feet, but my riches are
what I've learnt, that put me higher
than any would be kings or thieves.

Words are that which  empower me
as I slumber on clean sheets of syllables,
weaving into my dreams. Then woken
by a librarian letting me humble my mind.

This place is my castle that never falls,
where I have risen higher than there feet.
But still I gaze from below, as I do not need
a castle, the streets are my pages this I speak.