In a potters field a cross stands bare,
Nary a person nor flower is there.
No witness of this individualís life,
Blank testament of struggle and strife.
He lived his life by the golden rule,
Alone, but for his dreams of children in school.
The hopes, the passions now lie in state,
No peer for which to commiserate.
A barren cross beneath an uninspired sky,
Silhouettes of branches too proud to die.
The threadbare ground unfertile for crop,
A perfect ambiance for death to stop.
No cacophony of nature no maternal nurture,
The pain of sorrow an eternal torture.
Of humanís suffrage the portrait is framed,
An homage to poor, of trespassing disdain.
Never forsake an individualís presence,
The lives he touches can shape our essence.
A singular flame of humanities wildfire,
Burns fiercely till snuffed by societies ire.
Pause in your lifetime to acknowledge a soul,
Listen as someonbody's story is told.
Offer a kind heart, a shoulder to lean,
Make their day better, their hearts to glean.
This personís story is reminiscent of many,
Their only crime is to die without a penny.