The Cruel Clink Of Change

The sound of coins in Dress pants' pockets Mocks her existence She has nowhere To call home except The corner of a dark Alley that remains Cold with condescension The horrific smell Of rotting dreams Consumes the air Choking her mind Proving just how Powerless she is In a world that Cannot see her Will not see her Soundlessly she Floats through the Empty streets late At night when all The good little children Are sound asleep In their beds with Warm quilts sewn by Loving grandmothers She weeps not for Herself, but for those Poor children who Can see only the Good in the world Denying the reality That she must face Day after day