This poem by a young girl, who’s life ended too quickly, its for children such as her that our voice @Cristina’s House of Hope will never be silenced. Loss of Innocence by Suzie Oneeglio. The wind moaned a doleful, melancholy wail, a cry of pity so eerie that it sent the hunch-backed trees into vehement shudders and blanched her expressionless face pure white. And on she walked. Whistling behind her, so shrill and menacing, the wind followed her down the lonely lane. Hushed stealthily, it would pounce on her unguarded, clutching and groping at her body with its icy fingers prying at her bones, trying to strip her bare, desolate in her naked hell. She walked on, felt nothing but a consciousness of a dim light, felt no urban trademark under her feet, no weariness of a zombied walker. Through time she walked, back six years to where it all began; or ended. She hadn’t anywhere to go anyway, only backwards. Six years of walking aimlessly in life, a nightmare of silent screams and living hell. Yes, she had only been young. Sheltering from the world in naivety’s sanctuary. It was a lovely house, though a bit restricting. It housed a young child and was safe and secure. Innocence lodged there as well. Fear and violence only visited occasionally though they never stayed long enough to impose on naiveties hospitality. Looking safe and secure from high up in her castle turret, she viewed the world from a rose-coloured window. Life looked so free. Peering through the window she never saw the scratches or the smudges on the glass. Fear and violence sneered at naiveties frailty and scorned innocence ignorance. A malevolent intruder arrived uninvited, a friend of violence. Innocence and naivety fled in fear. The man came closer. He pushed her into a corner. He violated her world and her childlike body. Stripping her, he left her naked and exposed. His face contorted in an animalistic pleasure. Fear and corruption watched him as her carried out his deeds, and they chuckled fiendishly as she screamed for naivety to save her. He laughed and thrust her on to the floor. Pinning her down, he watched as she writhed frantically to her rid herself of the strangling entwining mass of his serpent-body. He smothered her and she could not breathe. When she thought her lungs would burst he left, and avariciously she sucked the putrid air steaming in from the broken window. The air spread a disease in her lacerated wings and as she bottled her experience inside, the disease incubated, manifested itself and poisoned all her body. Naiveties window shattered, she picked up one of the jagged pieces that reflected her lost innocence. She wrote a post-script to her life and signed her name in blood. Children’s blood is so fresh and scarlet that it stains and taints all it engulfs. She looked in the piece of glass and saw reflections of his fingerprints on her body and her own blood trickling down making pretty patterns. Six years later, and on she walked. The wind screeched and she mindlessly walked over the metal tracks. She heard a rattling louder than her bursting heart. She was conscious of nothing but the light coming closer. She sat and waited. Rocking gently she crooned in a child like voice. “Train is a’ coming, Oh yeah!” The light coming closer and closer. The wind was silent, reverent. It began to moan, a doleful yet melancholy wail. A wail of pity so eerie…
Posted on: Fri, 06 Sep 2013 03:04:33 +0000