Treasure Island

Robert Dummett


In The Pocket of Poverty


Deep in the pocket of poverty
Bitten in the dead night
When eyes roll down their shutters
And the moon dawns the beam of sun,
I strain to the stolen light
Not for reward or rank
Or the faceless grins and praises
Tunneling through the ages
Of the most beaten path.

Not for those lofty stars save
For some humble soul I pen
These piquant points
Nor for those dons with halos
Embraced by the nymph of night
But for those infected by
The sore of poverty
And bruised by briars
Who branch a tree with cries.

The numb fingers of bleeding hands
Singe in the sacred flame
To stake my branded claim.

Submitted: Sunday, May 15, 2011
Edited: Friday, May 27, 2011

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