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Empty are the rooms.
White, yellowed sheets yearning for an inhabitant to consume.
As she breaks tortuously her bending back
With comfort laying in the most homely of sacks.
Here is the woman with poverty in lack
But her currency
Domant but fervently
Longs to be spent
But its purpose never, like the sheets, met.
Sweat drips from her forehead
As she's looking at the clock ahead.
As dust particles gather upon her bed
Delirious and poorly read
She twists her spine instead.
A dread bred by the climbing, wealthy
Soon dead.