Beggar It!
Hair drenched hung at her neck.
Cold, bedraggled.
Left on the stone cold stairs.
Beside the house of the holy.
Fingers purple.
Blue, pink.
Fingertips smarting.
Fiery red inside.
Holly was her name.
Her visage as red as cherry ripe.
Tears her only friend.
Old enamel mug in turquoise.
Waiting to catch stray nickel coins.
Holds only pennies of memory.
Locked in her cold brain.
She cannot sing.
Nor play a note.
Busking is no option.
She wrote a poem of her own,
A kind of begging note.
She wrote it in bright colours.
In letters truly bold
Cry is all that she will do.
In hope's desperation.
That all is not lost.
She hopes someone will read her poem.
And,
****** her from the winter cold!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 3:12 PM UTC
Beggar It!
Hair drenched hung at her neck.
Cold, bedraggled.
Left on the stone cold stairs.
Beside the house of the holy.
Fingers purple.
Blue, pink.
Fingertips smarting.
Fiery red inside.
Holly was her name.
Her visage as red as cherry ripe.
Tears her only friend.
Old enamel mug in turquoise.
Waiting to catch stray nickel coins.
Holds only pennies of memory.
Locked in her cold brain.
She cannot sing.
Nor play a note.
Busking is no option.
She wrote a poem of her own,
A kind of begging note.
She wrote it in bright colours.
In letters truly bold
Cry is all that she will do.
In hope's desperation.
That all is not lost.
She hopes someone will read her poem.
And,
****** her from the winter cold!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
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