The door ajar, taunts liberty.
Unknowns without, the only way,
so Mariana brokenly
ran through the door, through all the day,
A child of eight, who knew not play,
with parents lost enroute up north,
from aunt and uncle, run away.
Had parents known, she’d not been birthed,
for three years past, she wore no worth
her pain-filled face, those bodies meet
with dirty feelings – sordid sort.
Twelve miles burnt on a freeway’s heat,
those passing by – uncaring fleet,
unmoved by love, this girl petite,
her sex abused, her road-bled feet.
Over at DVersePoets, we are writing about fear. Why don’t you come over and haunt us a bit.