I Am As Poor As Poor Can Be
I am as poor as poor can be,
my wallet a hollow, echoing sea—
the coins like bones, they clink of death,
and hunger hums beneath my breath.
No gold, no silk, no satin thing,
just the ghosts of want that softly sing.
They braid my hair with ash and dust,
they whisper, starve—but keep your trust.
I count my ribs, they are my pearls,
the moon my mirror, cracked and whirled.
The sun, a thief, burns what I own,
and leaves me clothed in skin and bone.
Yet still I write—my ink is grief,
my pen, a thorn, my page, belief.
For poverty, that bitter sea,
has made a strange rich king of me.
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