At the height of its elevation it looked six years old
At the height of its immolation it was nearly ten
At the depths of its dependence it had a mental impairment
At the depths of its ascendance it flourished as malnourished
The chosen child chose to be covered in sores
In the light of its destiny it was locked in the darkest cellar
In the light of its destiny it lived in the world's richest city
In the dark of its promise it lived on sawdust and scraps
In the dark of its promise it sat in its own sacred filth
The chosen child rejoiced in its sores
It huddled it hid it cringed in the corner
Living under the threats of being cleansed and living in sunlight
Leads to the memory of its womb figure's voice and the
life-not-lived, as it squeaked "I will be good. Please let me out"
