Soulless,
Pitiable child,
Whose hands are bloodied
Not by the wounds from present
And incurable circumstance,
Though from experiences not met
With a future that crept
On the horizon,
Not to the child’s blinded eyes
And their missing awareness.
Loss of this kind
Knows no motherhood.
A heart that gained light
Became dark by the same sunrise,
When nothing was ever there
To pull back the stare
To a wakened glare.
Drunken,
Sordid,
Underaged
And futile.
With steps to make the walk,
With first vocabulary
To echo the talk
For a conversation back and forth,
Upon the long steps
Down hallways of gleaming
And stagnant portraits.
Faces that never speak,
Though full of memories
To make the mind weep.
Soulless,
Pitiable child
Whose face drops to a headlong.
Weeping with bloodied tears,
Laced in everyday fears.
Modern Romanticism 