The Soliloquy of a Poor Woman

Is there a point

In living in this world?

Or does this world have a

Point, a point

That I must climb 

The trecherous mountains

In order to reach? 

There is love, and there is hate

But where have they gone? 

And where do they reside? 

Does hate indulge

Celebrate with champagne

As it dwells alone

In its oblivious mansion? 

Is hate comfortable where it's

At? Or is it just accustomed 

To its repetitive routine? 

And where does love live? 

Or does it roam around,

Putting its thumb in

The air for us to see

So that we could give

Her a ride, a bed, and

Something to eat for her

Never-ending journey? 

We may believe who love

Is and what she should look

Like, but we may never 

Truly understand, the 

Matters of her heart, why

It breaks, and why, in 

Spite of opportunity, she 

Is nowhere to be dwelling?

Nowhere to be working, 

But everywhere in the streets, 

Abandoned as a stray, 

Only being well-fed with

Crumbs from the table

And to her, it's

Abundant rain, 

Rain for her to dance in,

Drink from, and be restored with. 

We know where hate was born, 

But we may never know where

Poor, innocent love

Had been birthed from her

Doting mother and father 

As we adore her body, 

We want her body

We want to eat her flesh

But we refuse to

Feed her soul in return. 

Poor love, 

With a virgin heart,

A virgin soul, a virgin mind

Yet her body had been raped,

Reverred as a whore. 

When all she wanted

Was to give her flowers

They took them and exchanged them

For wilting weeds. 

And as hate lives in comfort

With worshippers at his feet, 

Love seeks but can't find, 

And is trampled by their feet.