Elliot Moore Ahiator

The Beggar And Me.

His hands, outstretched and lean,

with much effort he lifts his voice

and the stench, o! Overwhelming.

Yet I looked at him, this beggar,

Homeless and degenerate.

I stare long enough to take in his situation,

Then, I turn away.

Yes! I did.

“He doesn’t exist,

He actually isn’t there.”

I owe him no obligation so I turn

And I tell myself that never happened.

Topic(s) of this poem: africa, aid, helpless, indifference, liberty, life, lifestyle, poverty, reality, sickness

Poem Submitted: Saturday, December 12, 2015
Poem Edited: Saturday, December 12, 2015

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