Some folk walk down the path of life alone,
With weathered soles and spirits strangely grown.
You'll see them in worn coats, with eyes that gleam,
And though they pass like strangers in a dream,
There thrives a story no one ever reads,
A tale wound tight within their quiet deeds.

Perhaps a widowed heart beats in that breast,
A loss whose pain time cannot truly wrest.
Or maybe dreams long shattered haunt their sight,
And every step is but a shadowed fight.
Yet, while their paths and burdens stay unknown,
There's some who cast their judgements like a stone.

With prying eyes and lips that twist and sneer,
Their careless whispers cut the startled ear.
"Her house is shambles, look at such a sight,"
They hiss, blind to her solitary plight.
"His clothes are tattered, such a dreadful shame,"
They chide, while Fortune spins her fickle game.

They offer not a single hand to aid,
No gentle word when spirits start to fade,
But loose their tongues with harsh and bitter stings,
As if such cruelty on pride has wings.
Their hearts lie barren, empty of true grace,
Where kindness should reside, there's naught but space.

How blind they are, bound in self-righteous chain,
To wound the weary with their cold disdain.
Each life's a book whose pages none may read,
Each soul a seed with yet unseen its need.
So should we stumble 'cross another's way,
Let silence guide us, let compassion sway.

For who are we to judge the path they tread,
To mock the sorrows in their lowered head?
Their fight remains their own, their tears unshed,

A hidden battle fought before they're dead.
If only hearts could feel another's sting,
Perhaps less lips would poison everything.

Some folk must tend the business of their soul,
Patch wounded kindness, make their spirits whole.
Turn eyes inward, quell the scornful blight,
Hold back the darkness, seek a gentler light.
Then maybe we shall tread a wiser way,
With open heartbeats, come what ever may.