Crumpled

Crumpled

Life’s best phase is being a child,
Laden with happiness and joy.
A mind that just knows to enjoy
With imaginations so wild.

Delicate like a flower, 
Soft as a feather, very fragile, 
Ready to be moulded, 
Into whatever the future promises
The child, is naive and innocent, 
Is that a flaw? Can you tell? 

At the age to laugh with a toy,
The angelic face that oft smiled,
Was so deceitfully beguiled
By demons who came to destroy.

The bud was crumpled and crushed
Before it could even bloom
By those lecherous hands
That only knew to harm. 
The eyes that once gleamed in glee, 
Were now moist always, reflecting the pain. 

The scars, visible, healed, 
The ones hidden, remained sealed. 
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