Weary, wrinkled, tattered — I sit among others.
An example, I am, of blunt imperfection.
Untouched with age, dust accumulates blanketing
The relief I harness as many venture on.
The disease, I call it, concerns the many passers.
Appearing helpless, they search; endlessly looking
For any comfort. Eyeing me, they stand disgusted
At my repulsive, unattractive appearance.
Sadly, I observe many leaving, unaware
That I possess the cure they so desperately need.
Yet, I still am brushed aside. A disease, they all have;
And they wander aimlessly, forever searching.