Empty dreams, in hope to fill.
On bent back, her
Happenstance delivers its
Standing, glowering, straight at me?
By right of birth, I stand above.
"Is it my fault, her poverty?"
I softly touch my kidskin glove.
"Am I better, by circumstance of
I question this rude and random
I look at her and see no mirth,
As fate delivers the shortest straw.
But for my station at conception,
By random chance, I
bear my lot.
I could be she, it's just perception
Frowning sadly, deep in thought.