Little Lady Lost (Sonnet)
Rebellious thoughts in youth descry a hold
upon the very minds of virtues tongue.
Our Little Ladies soiled by men so bold,
within an inch, their very lives are flung
upon the tainted mattress where they’ll lie
until their bodies waste through large misuse,
and fey their voices close, too oft they die;
slow *****, fast killed, Light broken through abuse.
Though one there is, not timid in her haste
she knows the way to take away the pain,
she lies there, pretense moaning; what a waste,
a Lady, Little girl born to the chain.
I ponder now, these words under my pen
of children lost, to suffer under men...
