Flavors of faces too numerous to count,

Jagged-toothed smiles, worn out from laughter and delight,

The desire to create, electrifying little hands, 

Eyes that glisten with the imagination of worlds to be discovered,

Gentle breezes kidnap the innocent pitches born of song and storytelling,

A child’s heart come to life.

Smooth skin tainted with scars and burns,

Empty spaces where a smile should be, 

Hands that have worked too hard, leaving nothing but quickly dissolving flesh from the grips of fragile bones,

Dimly lit eyes, fearing to look at anything but the ground,

Trapped voices. The absence of sound born of another’s black contempt,

A child’s tortured heart, never whole to begin with.