Poor To The Crowd

When my pockets are empty, my knees hit the floor,

God whispers, Now, you are Mine once more.

No riches to shield me, no pride in the way,

Only faith to carry the hunger each day.

But to women, my worth is a number, a sum,

A measure of wealth, what I have, what will come.

Love is a promise, but bills call it lies,

Affection is fleeting when bank accounts die.

God says, Come closer, you need only Me,

But love in the world has a cost, has a fee.

A king in the heavens, a beggar on earth,

One seeks my spirit, the other my worth.

So I walk in the middle, where silence is loud,

Rich to my Maker, yet poor to the crowd.

Torn between purpose and pockets of dust,

Loved by the heavens, but here—who to trust?