I'm not there yet,the welkin hasn't shone an aureole above me yet.
I do not fret,since they already are,who they were born to be.
I'm holding back my voice,as their echo bursts through the valley of silence.
Now a dance of truth.
Pictures of young innocent new born,
On net-sites remind me of the wrathful horns.
Has one,signifying deformity,that toucheth the hearts' of steel minds,been blown?
Tears surround joy,i so curse the existence of artificial clowns.
Sadly twirl,drown in sympathy and pain when i impersonate these young souls.
The price of change in age and people,my spirit cries foul.
Spasms of fear in the unknown grips me.
For the elite,born in perfection and meta-morph in wealth.
To later rule the disabled dwelling in arcane ill health.
I plead,stop the bleeding join the poor in prayer,call unto God to save us.
Those that are and shall be.
By M.O.O. aka C.E