Never made them; not as a point of fact dependent on a calendar at least. I am weak beneath my strength, tumors grow and punch the armor leaving bumps and boils that in my ignorance I feel invisible.
Dragging into man’s new year a burden, a hurt and rage that rides the blood the length and breadth of me, returning to the heart to only reinfuse itself with life and cycle through again.
Control is not oblivious nor forgiving. Control is merely self-smothering and deadly to the soul. A resolution then, to set the evils free, to let the devils dance a song of written words and send them to a proper hell of hidden file upon a hard drive. There they can reside and spin unseen, unfelt, unspoiling of any lives.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology