Who is this child, unseen and broken,

never clean, never heard or spoken of,

consumed by terror, drowning in fear?

Nothing breaks more than her heart.

There is no one to save her,

to help her through the horror.

Her day bleeds, her night screams.

She is the child of the people

born from our flotsam and debris.

We think she is not of us,

we are not of her.

We turn our back; she has no shadow.

She is the smallest and the weakest,

the most affected among us.

First to get eaten by the lion.

The sun shines upon MY day

so I needn’t think of her.

Am I guilty? I am guilty.

Will we see the child, ever,

or continue our inward facing life in cold blood.

We all are punished in our secret soul.

Will we see the child once there is nothing left

but bones from our cannibal feast.

We are the child.

Live

Choose to live your one life well

Wade Harold Johnson