The Broken Self

A beautiful face without a name.
searching amidst the random crowd
for the broken pieces of her existence.

Scattered, tethered, somewhere lost around
waiting to be picked up, to be cleansed
to be gathered and put together in shape.

For she has no purpose in her life
hovering like a body without soul.

Always in a hope to be spared a glance
to cross someone's path for a fleeting trance
waiting for the hands to comfort her wailing heart.

Her sad face smeared with dust and black
longing to be washed off from the worries of life.

She waits and waits for all endless hours,
in vain, in despair, just to find a little space.
To put in place her lost self.
And to find a name for her beautiful face.