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He watched the wretched
Through a dirty pane of glass
Thinking himself blessed
Above the lower streets of crass

He thought his insight
Beyond their moaning plights of pain
Some heraldry of light
Rather than wishful grasps for fame

No boots of leather
Within those alleys black did stride
Only stormy weather
Could he see while locked inside

Gifts of gold and silver
he did bless with a scrawled line
an altruistic giver
who never met those he defined

That day a cleansing rain
exposed missed truth, the unseen whole
Dirt spots upon the pane
Could never mar such lovely souls

© EMMI LAWRENCE (1.22.2018)