The Lost

They stand before me dressed in white, I can't remember a place so clean. They talk like I'm not even there, or am just some worthless thing. The grasp that holds me is rough and cold, no comfort offered there. And they end my days like I'm nothing, without a thought or care. I find myself with others in a sunny field, warm and flower filled, The rest, like me, just throwaways - whose lives were all uphill. We stand here still scarred by life, though our physical pain is done The abused, the feral, the misused and unloved, and the forgotten ones. Now they stand before me dressed in white, and I cringe at the touch of their hand, Then they talk to me like I am someone, and they say they understand. And they stroke my head, ease my pain and fear, and tell me I am free. For heaven remembers and loves all of us, even the lost ones like me. (c) Candace Return to Poetry Index