TITLE: Tattered August 27, 2012
By Jackie Johnson
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This one man's soul feels as worn and torn
as the rags left on this meager frame.
I shake my cup for coins but would treasure
the sound of another's voice in earnest conversation.
Some look upon me with disdain
as I might have looked upon myself
when I still had pride.
Others look upon me with pity and drop their change
with little clinks and clanks into my cup.
Yet some walk by and do not see me at all.
That is the harshest reality.
I am invisible.
Surely not transparent--as then,
all that is broken inside would be exposed.
Reduced to this nothingness...
what is left to this man?
Perhaps I am one more discarded container
left in the street.
The man inside was all used up.
All that is left is this tattered soul.
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