A Still Form in the Street

Too weak to lift my eyes, too tired to lift my head. Lying on the ground, the rain soothing tired limbs. My cheek resting against the moist earth, the mud splashing up, but washing down my face. I close my eyes and do not wish to open them tonight. The cold begins to soak into my bones, and somehow I can no longer feel my toes. My parched lips part and gasp for deeper air, and my swollen lids crack open but see nothing but darkness there. I am lying in the middle of a lonely street, mud in my hair, tears on my cheeks. Too tired to move, my body so weak. There is no one to help, no help will come. So I'll lay in the cold street, till morning light comes; but when the people shall see me, I shall be already gone.