He skulks about in faded light,
Hiding shame, lost in the night.
Begging alms in shadowed doors,
In ragged clothes, with dirt caked pores.
He lives a life just out of sight,
From those offended by his plight.
In his youth he once did dream,
But ne’er foresaw this constant stream.
Of pain and strife and hunger cold,
This kind of life was not foretold.
He was once some mother’s son,
Now he’s lost, but who has won.
Remember, as you lie in bed,
This could be you or me instead.
At times bad choice, or just bad luck,
It’s hard to avoid the mire and muck.
Practice pity, when next you see,
Someone with less than you or me.
breezespeaks 
Brilliant!!!
Thank you, darling.