Saturday, February 17, 2018

Eddie Awusi writes


I met a lonely woman
To whom hope was a luxury.
She was a maiden to misfortune,
Her dress, an interpolation of curious eras:
Half medieval, half stone age.
She stood bending, like a moon walker
Tired of this realm of man.

Mid-term of life, her song was soured.
Sheaves of grieves
Were the harvests of her world apart.
Sowing in pain and reaping tares.

I met a lonely woman -
Haggard, bereft and worn-out;
Unkept and disheveled.
Staring like an apparition.
Clutching at life
With shivering resolution.
 Image result for bag lady painting
But for the Grace of God (The Bag Lady) -- Georgette Seabrooke Powell

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