The Destitute

The destitute too wish to have a chance at life, they do.

Not just a mere survival on the pieces thrown at them by fate,

By a sheer misfortune of chances; they too wish to have a chance at happiness.

At thriving in the throes of pure, unadulterated glee,

Without having to indulge in the woes of melancholy.

They too wish to pick up some conches at a seashore someday,

Without having to worry about catching a fish or two - 

Their only proper meal of the day.

A chance at basking in the salt of the waves 

With the comfort of a soothing bath awaiting them at their homes.

The destitute too wish to be treated like the humans they are, 

At all times, without having to be derided upon by 

Unscrupulous beings wearing the façades of a human.

The destitute too earnestly wish for a chance to dream - 

Of whatever they could, of however they would, 

A sweet dream amidst the comforting duvets of sleep,

Without having to be coerced into forgoing the grumbles of an empty stomach.

The destitute too wish for necessities, not luxuries, for perhaps,

That right rests with the haves and 

The have-nots, those destitutes stay behind with hopes, wishes, and unfulfilled dream.