The cradle of life

Is coated with lead paint

Poisoning the Infant Popular,

Death seeping, burrowing into

her fair skin, deception disorders poised

to arise for her fragile, imminent adolescence.

The poor thing is premature,

Birthed out of rape,

Fathered by the sperm of war.

The fertility of the land

Oxymoronically acidic.

A weary race can adopt the lost little girl.

A forcibly aged boy, hopelessly branded Mr. Gunpowder,

Can see her though blinded in one eye,

His half-world shrouded in the shadow of a doubt. 

The child's future is in many hands…

The gruff, calloused hands of the overlords

The smooth, opportune hands of the critic

The curled, fist like hands of the rival

The scarred, arthritic hands of the tied,

Twenty-four million…

And what of the hands of God?

Shall He suffocate Her, or empower Her?

Shall He embrace Her, or leave Her in the

Charred grave of those who fought for Her?

How do we expect her to find

Her voice, when all she hears

Is the language of violence?

The end of life a familiar backdrop

In the desert environs of ancient Babylon,

It citizens balancing dangerously

Until arriving at Enough and they turn their backs with finality

To the Infant's graceless protectorate.

Reduced to a face on a banner,

Her body and soul are mishandled and disassembled

On the behalf of ammunition.

The problems of this pregnancy never anticipated

By Her surrogate father.

It seems the Infant was an afterthought…

This poor lost little girl.