Patchwork Woman

Faded patches Tattered stitches Dust in her hair As the dust of memories past Her life in rewind Yellowed parchments, faded lettering Leading from empty childhood To this empty street Cold, impersonal stone High towers of imposing wealth Mockery and indifference Even disgust For such the likes of her Eyes are dulled Of that vibrant spark That had once marked her of this life Now she is the dregs of life Cast off and tossed into the gutter What she had once been What she has become Everything she once knew Swallowed up by life Life of a cruel and harsh nature Left her behind Alone Cold Empty Invisible yet reviled Unnoticed yet kicked aside Was she once you? Is she what I may be? Gloves as dirty as the city garbage bin She rifles through To her our garbage is a treasure Reduced to pursuing the most basic necessities of life A simplicity in her pursuits, her motives Yet the simple pursuits more complicated Than my spoiled mind will ever know Does she have a story? Did her book have a beginning and an end? If asked, she would simply stare Whatever it was then However it began It has led here And here, she believes, it will end. Dried up as a carrion carcass The refuge of life And our darkest, most depressing moments For her there is no hope Hope there was once an illusion That has slowly faded As she has slowly faded Into the dust of the street...