Lucinda
Her name is Lucinda, a mere child, just turned fourteen
This hapless woman child, born of the blood of many lands
Conceived of youthful passion, in a moment of youthful lust
She arrived unplanned, unwanted and unloved, as no child ever should
Like you and I she has her hopes, her dreams, her needs and her plans
Here before us stands, this lovely child on the cusp of a blossoming womanhood
Abandoned by those who should care but who are oblivious to
Her wants, her needs, her dreams
Cast to the hands of fate to drift alone upon these savage streets, alone to face the night
You know they found her early Sunday morning, at early morning light
Lying silently in the crimson blood, the blood that once had held her precious life
Her name was Lucinda, a mere child, a lovely child, just turned fourteen
Cry a tear for her, SCREAM.
Copyright © Donald J Bennett | Year Posted 2012
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