A Child's Black Creek

The water runs rapid,
With the blood of a child,
And the life of a kid.
Which did nothing wild.

Lost in the hate,
Of an elders beating.
Now death meets its mate.
The child, not breathing.

Purity just wanted to live,
Without broken emotions.
What can we give,
Without any devotions

All you feel is bleak,
As you mix the brew.
With blood in the creek,
From a Child of you.

By Glen Jackson