Her Name Was Poor

by admin on December 16, 2016

Sometimes depression is so hidden behind the masks of wealth, rule, poise, and popularity that only God can see it. 

May the LORD restore those who have broken souls, and may the monetarily wealthy never believe that their riches are their root to happiness when it can be quite the opposite as time and lost lives have proven.

 

Her name was Poor.

She had a wide smile and rich draperies for hair that licked the marble floors beneath her high back, royal chair while her feet became glazed with the brightest of flames and her fingertips rested like ice in a bowl full of fire.  She was admired from The Bottoms because she sat so high up that the necks of those who sought after her slipped from their joints as they strained to watch her prance from point to point, from entry to exit, her presence was pleasant, and when she stared down onto the miserable town, she kept her face of stone, like all her happiness was gone.

Her name was Poor.

She was the exception to  what life was trained to be as she emptied her passions toward her destiny by painting murals of make believe and fantasies of furor because she was so much larger than life that there was no room for her, so she became a mockery to mesmerize when she began to paint her own skin in tapestries and trailways, visible scars of her failed days.

Her name was Poor.

She spoke with the elegance of a hummingbird and stood with the attention of a giraffe while her arms stretched with the strength of eagles and her voice thundered like the sound of a lioness and because of that, all the people knew she was blessed, shrinking beneath her height and soaking in her sight.  She was the ocean that made their lakes, supply and demand was never at stake because she was the queen of all things, and her royalty was like power while in silence she melted away into a strong depression with every hour.

Her name was Poor.

Even though she had a wide smile with a wealth of winding hair that slid across the marble floors beneath her high back, posh chair while her toes practiced their tips and her palms massaged the gravel, she was adored from The Bottoms because she forced herself so high up that the necks of those who sought after her became broken at their joints as they strained to gain her gait from point to point, from coming and going, her presence was pushed, and when she stared down onto the beautiful city, she kept her face of stone because what made her a beauty was long gone.

The people from The Bottoms loved her.  They always called for her to come back down, to help them live their lives and splash in the muddy puddles on the grimy ground because they remember what they used to call her while they were also proud of where she’d been which is why all night long they would dance and sometimes even sing, banging the bricks of the high rise under the brightly black sky until she finally stood out onto the barren balcony and dropped down from the sun…

Her wings stopped working, and Poor Baby was done.


Her Name Was Poor is a featured poem in my upcoming 2017 book of poetry. Thank you for listening. Download any and many of my other novels or short story series while here at mirikacornelius.com.

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