The very essence of a person's deepest poverty,
Is not defined by riches, societal currency, or commodity,
It exists in profound emptiness, an unspoken void,
A scarcity of spirit, concealed, often thought destroyed.
This is not a paucity of external possessions,
Nor a lack of connections, or material obsessions,
It's an affliction of the soul, a weighty despair,
A poverty of being, an internal cross to bear.
Not determined by stature, nor visible appearance,
But impoverished in the domain of the heart's adherence,
A person finds themselves ensnared, vision unclear,
Living in the shadow of shame, held captive by fear.
When a compassionate hand extends, offering hope and grace,
An opportunity presents to rise above this shadowed space,
To ignite the spirit, to pierce the veil of night,
To confront the inner demons, and kindle the inner light.
But the choice rests solely within the impoverished's own control,
To break free from the darkness that takes its toll,
To view spiritual poverty as temporary, not as the end,
To embrace a nourishing feast, rather than a quick mend.
To recognize love when it beckons from the shadows,
May seem all too difficult when used to the fallows,
For when enduring spiritual poverty find's faith all too tough,
To believe in love is to accept it is truly possible to rise above.
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