The Children Of Deprivation

In the terrane of deplorable deprivation manifested in the wasteland of wretched desertion, the obscure tufts of the subdued slender grass struggle to rise through the cleavage of stony destiny. The frail faces shaping the artifacts of spiteful fate, flicker with the fading smile of residual innocence, borrowed from the remnant rays of the forsaken sun, already sunk in the depth of desolate dark horizon. The children when they should be blooming like flowers, stray to nowhere, uncared and soiled in the harsh squall of the juvenile servile servitude. Under the fair freedom spread by the unbound sky the infantile dewdrops devoid of pristine patina no longer bejewel the puerile grass of our meadow. Tarnished by the muck of our malevolent times, the deranged dreams of the dew dry premature. In the twilight hour on the penultimate journey, I wish I could give the last rays of my setting sun to the relics of the dewdrops so they can glow awhile. I wish I could drip the last drop of empathy from my oasis, so their innocent smile doesn’t desiccate in inimical desert. Just one thing I’d like to change is to stop child labor, show the children of the lesser God the dreams of dew that would never die.