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Age of Seven
Filth, she wore filth as a raincoat
'twas spring, yet her clouds of delusion
Sob into ways of infidelity and despair
'twas her sobbing that raised her pleas
Odor, a fallen angel at the age of seven
Stunk of an odor of muck and blood
Tiny feet of scabbed knees rose into favor
A man passing by, wearing cheap leather
Clinching the ground with her scarred hands
Hesitation bestowed upon a little lady of seven
Dirt smothered her face like a savage being
Bracing herself into indulgence, she limps
Bleeding toes of tiny feet, she tip-toes across
The floor never felt rough or sharp before
Yet spikes of rejection aflame her body like fire
Her hoarse voice speaks out into hollow walls
Stops the man with cheap leather, as he ponders about
Grabbing leather, she pulls, yet softly as if it were silk
Pouting, the man braces himself into a surprise
A girl, the age of seven, weeps into such cheap leather
Eyes of stone, life struggles within a delicate creature
Broken teeth of chapped lips do not speak of plea
Yet scarred hands, reaching up towards his chest bone
Widens carefully into a small bowl of wanting
Leather on her skin, eyes gaping into a surprise
Bending down to a closer view of such an adorable face
He hands his wallet into the cheap leather’s pocket
His eyes spoke of immense loss and heavy grief…
Alas, the man of her dreams walks off into the light
Excitement, like holding your first Christmas gift
She opens to find forty dollars and three pennies
With a picture of a daughter on the side
She looked like…
A girl, the age of seven.
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