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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required "Fragments and crumbs of life, all the little pieces, John Ruskin, 1853 888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888 I had no friends and was totally striped of personal pride and self respect. Bare footed, torn and worn out cloths, I was often cold, wet, and sickly. I was the lone homeless and hungry one denied human dignity. When crumbs fell from the rich man's table, I was the willing beggar* longing for every piece that fell. I was the cast-away whose sores the dogs gladly licked. Any examination of my internals would clearly reveal not only my physical poverty, but also a humiliated soul filled with emptiness. Many would look at, through, or even pass me, never giving me a hand up, a hand out, or the time of day. I have been bled of self respect and self worth, left with misery and pleads of death. So be certain that exploring me is what you are really called to do, because few there are like me who have been pushed and pulled, turned and jerked until every skeletal part of my entire being has been merged into another. One would need a special kind of flashlight to probe my literal waste land. Only one connected to a magnifier would reveal the traumatized and smashed remains of what once was a man. A deeper exploration is required to discover the dehumanized hidden memories forgotten so long ago. Dreams that never surfaced, goals never mentioned, and fears never brought to anyone's attention would be next to impossible to locate, because they are disguised in a corner. I can no longer cry because what once were tears no longer exist, and my heart no longer melts because it is now hard as stone. My eyes portray one of sound mind, but they are filled with pain and possessed by one at the mercy of others, but please do not use your eyes to cry for me. For some reason, far in the back sides of my soul, there remains a God-Place that has never been extinguished. Yes, I eat crumbs, but I don't feel I have a crummy life or hopeless spirit. Although my strength is gone, my hope is strong, and I know that my time here is not long. I can visualize when that time comes, every broken and shattered piece of my soul shall be mended and put back together like the dry bones of Israel. But until then, in my heart, in that God-Place, there is still room for a song of gratitude and praise to God which I will sing with the angel when he comes for me. 082420PSCtest, All The Little Pieces, Constance La France. 3P *Poem inspired by the life of Lazarus. Luke 16:16-20
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