Wednesday, September 28, 2011


The poor were found in every age as humans walked the earth
From fertile plain to forest dark to death to life to birth
To desert sands to water's edge to ice fields cold and stark
Wherever we have wondered, poverty too leaves its mark

Some have no choice the part they play in this game we know as life
No silken pillows 'neath their heads, no ease, no rest, just strife
From dawn 'til dusk and back again they plod to make ends meet
No crown victorious on their heads instead thorns of defeat

Others still plot this course through decisions none too wise
From judgments deemed just too poor their problems did arise
"This is a choice they made themselves" we say none too kind
"They shouldn't have done this or that, they were perhaps just blind

"And we are right," we say to ourselves, "we have concerns of our own
We need to keep our lives in order, our things, our stuff, our home
We have to run this race we're in most each and every day
We have to do this always and we must keep the wolves at bay

"Besides, the poor aren't hurting so much (or at least, so we're told)
For in winter the houses they live are seldom all that cold
Their shelters are fine, for even in the harshest summer's heat
They can rest and cool their troubled lives, to there they can retreat"

Of course, we lie to ourselves, for once the facts are known
That poverty's skeletal path is not so far from our own
We're one crisis shy, every one of us, from paths filled with dread
Yet we choose to cast derision upon those there already instead

We claim piety for all to see and yet it's very odd
That while we choose to follow him we clearly ignore our God
And Jesus we also ignore and just as equally;
"Whatsoever you do to the least of my brothers, that you do unto me"

Remember this, and heed these words; poverty's here for all
And those who sit up oh so high have oh so far to fall
For when on the steep slopes of fate any one of us slip
If no one cares then we too fall into poverty's wicked grip

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