A child of war

Scrabbling in the dirt,

gripping her mud splattered space,

facing the fury of human hatred,

a child crying for a chance to be.


Pulling herself up,

handheld tight to the hideous sight,

eyes blanketed and bleached

a wretched one of warring men.


Stooping to touch him,

scrabbling in the ruins of love

she found her father’s fingers,

and held on, hoping he’d wake


and whistle, and wrap her

tightly and lightly, but

the barbarism and blindness

of self centred sadists,


blasted the battered child,

and her eyes emptied of life

stare sightlessly at his hand,

and somewhere someone smiled

and said, “Well Done!”

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margins are a great place sometimes because it is where change happens fastest but it is also a horrible place when we are stuck in them and grace is the moment when we can see that someone cares.

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