The morning of mourning has begun.
As I hold my crumpled, broken child,
The victim of some monstrous fun,
Or hunger and civility gone wild!
I must - Not cry, Nor wail, Nor scream,
For my tears shall not help my cause,
I stem the flow of her scarlet streams,
And clutch at slender hopeful straws.
While soulful eyes and thoughtful minds,
Shall endeavor and try to guess,
If there's a cure they can hope to find,
Which will unbreak her brokenness.
Her eyes are closed, she knows no pain;
That sure as rain will raise its head,
She might endure or choose to feign,
Till out of breath and blissfully dead.
A promise broken, a thousand tears,
In the dark, alone and bleeding,
The flesh ripped open confessed her fears.
Inside her mind she kept retreating...
The devils committed their sinful sins;
and in the dark she screamed and bled.
Unleashing sorrow from their unholy skin
only 5 she was and already dead.
