The Suffering Child

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The Suffering Child

The visions they started when she was just three

Through tortured dreams, they arrived, driven by what, no one else but her sees.

They started as sounds, voices, and snippets of tunes

She ignored them at first but she was humming them soon. 

And this little girl, was already bad, her mother liked men, and was continually sad.

Her father was married, but not to her mom, so she was a bastard, this too was bad.  

Already corrupted and born full of sin, the church deemed her not even worthy to bless,

But yet, she heard things, and knew more than the rest. 

By age 7 the song, had started to glow. And then spread further and further, way past her control.

Now suddenly, people could see something else, something they wanted, all to their self.

So, people too old, for one so very young, suddenly wanted this child, in ways that weren’t right.

They corrupted this child, but then blamed her for their plight.

She tried so hard to be silent and tread softly and hid, and she kept her mouth shut, is that not what all-good little girls did?

With her mother on dates, and no father around, she was at the mercy of older adults; trusted pals.

By the time she turned 8, the real fun began, see the visions were given; they did have a plan.

In the world’s grand design, people pretend not to see, they don’t want to know, what children like her have to be.

Her eyes held the pain, of the wickedness and hate, those same men who dared touch her, now looked into their fate.

Her eyes drove them crazy, they could no longer look, upon what they had done, to whom they had hurt.

And yet she forgave them, this child of sin, and that did these terrible men finally in. 

Sometimes children are not born in live in this world, but live to teach lessons, expose evil, cause chaos to swirl.

Then they are done and quite suddenly they’re gone, on to the next path they must move on.  

Another day, another time another life is once again born, brought again into golden notes of private song in a chaotic storm,

And while God smiles down on his angel so sweet

She’s keeping time to the beat of a song with her feet. 

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Poetry is what is lost in translation.

Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

LindaMar04’s Poems (9)

Title Comments
Title Comments
Bossed by a Fool 0
What Are You Gonna Do? 0
My message to my daughter's newborn 0
The Suffering Child 0
The Rose and the Vine 0
IDENTITY THEFT 0
THE GATHERED FEW 0
TO LIVE IN THE FOG OF INDIFFERENCE 0
Soul of Emotions 1