Progeria
Progeria
No one knows what to do
But to stare and be rude
When a child of four is old
They just stand there and stare
Without any care
And the child suffers the stranger’s cold
And Life may not seem fair
When a girl has no hair
Like I said, she’s only four
But she takes it in stride
And has nothing to hide
It is the stranger that is poor
So no matter the eyes
That continually spy
Into her daily play
She is the purest gold
For me to hold
And I’ll love her everyday!
Copyright © Jeanette Ozee | Year Posted 2006
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