What happens to all the innocent children?
Are they swept away by the winds of reality, of fate?
Do they shrivel up and die inside?
Never again can they run free,
Never can they live peacefully.
Colors fade, black to grey.
Where they are they do not know,
Here mother hates father,
And people call them bad names.
Here there are voices,
Speaking succulent lies.
Children, they cry,
Soon they will struggle,
In husks of sweet souls,
The children shall suffer.
© Copyright 2017 Chrysta. All rights reserved.
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