It sat upon a wooden piece
the cushion there is none
ate with silverware
but just bare hands
and tasted wine
of the lower class
a canopy is where it slept
in a blancket made of scrap

it shed a tear
thinking of why
the only rich it has
is a black device
that had the world
which has the love
and a million thoughts
of what could've

It wants to hide
beneath these scar
cursing the clouds
for being hatched
in a world in where
A star is bright
but it is just dust
and nothing much.