by Mary Sexton
The outsider is strange, friendless, alone.
He wants to fit in, and he tries,
But the world doesn't want him.
Whether he is a dwarf, a cripple, or merely poor,
He is strange, and not like the rest,
Yet he tries to live his life among them.
There are some who could pity him, like him even,
A handful would reach out a helping hand,
But they are few and far apart, and they do not see him.
So he lives alone, on the edge of the world,
Not a blessing to his name, save live itself:
If life could be counted a blessing when lived like this.