she is born eagerly awaiting,

as every child does,


Only to find,

within the far reaches of her mind,

this image,

quickly distorted and useless.

One fleeting silent idea,

of purpose and future.

Tampered by disgust and demise.

Why does it matter?

Why care?

Is she a wasted conception,

or destined to contribute to the goodness in all?

She’s headed for a fall.

A victim of his discriminate choosing,

and dispicable-low-minded ideas of tenderness.

She is left bleeding,

Internally reaching,

Forever reaching for rescue.

But never was there a  whisper heard,

not a word,

or a single sound of utterance from her soul.

Search no more,

for another child is lost,

Yet another child is lost,

Another helpless soul.

Linda Booth


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