The Ragpicker

The Ragpicker

She stared at her face,
In the tiny mirror.
Gone was the youth,
And the beauty of yesteryears.

Her face was withered,
Her hair was a riotous mess.
She was clothed in rags,
And scavenged for food.

She still reminisced,
About the glory days of yore,
When heads had turned,
As she strode across the roads.

She had posed like a picture,
For many a painter,
And stood like a statue,
For several sculptors.

She had been the leading lady,
For umpteen heroes,
And carried many a movie,
On her slender shoulders.

Every day would be glorious,
Or so she had thought.
She had looked forward,
To bright dawns and nightly stars.

Then came the rave parties with their fixes,
From sharp but soothing needles.
She had also downed spirits of many hues,
Into her beautiful but luckless frame.

As days went by,
She needed fix after fix,
And more than several,
Spirits to down.

She lost her home and her wealth
And became one of the many,
Rag pickers of the world,
Who begged for fixes and spirits to drink.

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