Prose

The Worst of This

There lies a child of a powerless mother.

Herdreams are buried unsung,

Injustice lurks in the dark like a monster;
And power- goddess read
As darkest sermons of a horror circle.

She lies amongst the weeds of sobbing nights
On her somber garment of woes,
Three feet from garbage of injustice!
Who shall she cherish?
Or who shall she love?

Injustice, war profiteer,
When would you become a dove of peace?
That will pierce her body for jewelry,
For here lies her pieces in wounds
Screaming blindly for justice.

(C) July 2018

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