Children

A raised hand and a harsh word
Should not be all that children endure.
Children’s pure souls are stolen by the hands of fate,
As children lie broken behind white picket gates.
A clean white house sits behind a deceiving fence,
But at night a child cries for it's innocence.
Closed curtains and doors hide much from the eye.
But so can children, too afraid to cry.
A whimper for help is seldom ever heard.
Since they are threatened of which to not speak a word.
At home they live with a heart full of hurt,
As adults, they will stagger through six feet of dirt.
But when will it end? When will the blindness disappear?
When can children live in a world where they have nothing to fear?