Piteous the Legion
Sweep then across the flowing sea of time
to stand unseen amid a stinking horde
and there behold the rich who turn away
or groveling poor that vaguely beckon—
surveying misery's grimy bounds of each.
Wretched feeble ones of withered limb
and clouded eye—ladies in their rags—
ignored by ones who might have paused and bent
but never did, to burden beggars' bowls,
nudging them from darkness into light.
Copyright © Mark Peterson | Year Posted 2014
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment