She is unto herself an island.
--In her world there is no other.
No one. She is alone, all alone.
--Was there once a lover, a sister or mother?

It was so long ago, if ever she was young,
--Faded into nothingness. Even she
Matters little now. Scourged by society's omission,
To live is a burden; to exist is the key.

Her hair is snarled and wispy gray,
--Uncut, untended, stained with yellow.
Eyes, unseen, must be rheumy and weary,
--Cheeks etched with lines, sunken and sallow.

Face hidden in a rusty old coat,
--Skinny ankles engulfed in a too-large pair
Of men's shoes, without laces, cracked with age,
--Tarnished brown by the smut of her lair.

Back bent she shuffles down Second Street,
--Eyes downcast to avoid the gaze
Of those she might chance to meet
--In the city's bewildering maze.

By day she wanders aimlessly, going nowhere,
--Expected by no one at any time,
Wrapped in a cocoon of heedlessness,
--Returning by night to the clutter and grime.

Of her single cheerless and lonely cell,
--To lie unwashed on her narrow cot.
There is not a shred of beauty there,
--Nor of solace and comfort. She knows them not.

To think that there is among us
--A soul so shunned and turned away.
Where is our loving outstretched hand?
--Where is our compassion and pity, we pray?

Would that there were no single other,
--But she is not the only one.
There are countless outcasts like her,
--Loved, perchance, by God alone.