THE PROUD

They speak in words of gold
    and tinfoil echoes answer mockingly.
They walk in gilt-edged state
    on crumbling pedestals of rotten dreams.

They walk by heaven's door
    and consciously incline their heads a bit
while trailing garments
    gather mud from underfoot.

Their voices hang about the room
    like decorations from the night before.
Their finery is gone and silver sequins
    lie upon the floor.

But now they crawl through tortuous valleys
    to that sacred door
and lie with crumpled hearts
    and shattered pride.

			Lucille Hamilton