As the train comes
I feel that I'm being pushed.

she breaks the bread of her mind
and hand feeds it to her child
its young eyes look at her with
questions unanswerable

the bitter food of her deviant thought
helps sculpt its newborn mind
to the tattered doctrines of her own dark past
to the illness that her heart breeds
this should not be....should not be

years unfold like the passing clouds
silent spectators of the hidden things
that were behind that door
behind the closed shades of that home
the child did not grow
only festered like the weeping of an open wound
this should not be...what is to be done...who will stop this

the worlds days flutter past
the windows without pause
to their endless flight

as the child now sits alone with its tainted self
in the thick air of its room
listening to the sounds of angers in
another world across the hall
a world it cannot understand
a world that should be filled with loves but is only a battlefield

as we see this child now in our hearts eye
we too cry out with
what dark things our empathy beholds
feel helpless in the face of such

as we see this child in our hearts eye
it reaches down and breaks the bitter bread of its mind
and hand feeds it to the plastic doll that it calls
child