A simple little girl, not oh, not so special
looking at life though those jaded blue eyes with a
haunting intuitive knowing tugging at
her consciousness with filthy brittle fingers.

Her life thus far a menagerie
of pretense of love filled with silent tears,
always flowing, always there,
Behind broken glass panes and
weathered wood.

Her tender heart whispers to cold winter winds,
Where secrets lived in a fist of ice,
In those windswept vistas of her soul.
yet It burned like fire and filled her with pain
Where snow melted and scalded her ever sensitive skin.

Then there were those moments,
her innocence was gathered Inside
small glimpses of daylight, shining as
brilliant diamonds for a moment.

Then suddenly black, everything so black,
by that uncomfortable groping and lewd
touches in wrong places,
So many threats and denials,

Secrets, secrets everywhere ...
Where was her voice?
Did she have one or even deserve such a thing?

Buried by the filth of hoarse rushed words,
Those rough finger jabs raked over her skin of velvet,
by those nasty minds perverted by lust,
for that young innocent flesh in the pink,

Her screams muffled by hands gripped in sick passion
she hid inside her mind from the shock,
her mouth stuffed with something, disgusting dying to herself,
overcome with sheer horror, as they tore away at her tender soul.

Betrayal.

And yet, in the darkest of nights,
she dreamed of love, if it existed
to reveal itself in its mantel of hope.
She ran from anything that looked
like anger felt like fear,
and put on a cloak of indifference,
trembling a frail wounded petal,
the most delicate rose-
bloodstained and broken.

She felt frail as aged porcelain,
with feathery cracked veins
of emotion upon her soul. Yet, she lived,
not survived but, lived..in radiance and grace.

Forgiveness is the gift she eventually gave,
her freedom won,
Guilt is the shroud that he wore -
his death.

02/06/2007

Posted on 02/06/2007
Copyright © 2024 Rhonda Maneki