His mother had died; no one was there.
The three-year-old knew of no one who cared.
He had no choice but to brawl
When he was pinned against the wall,
Thrown onto the floor,
And shoved into the door.
His father had blackened his swollen eyes,
Yet no one could hear the child's cries.
He knew his father spoke no lies
When he told his son he was planning his demise.
There were garish purple bruises
And crude yellow contusions;
There were open lacerations and gaudy burns,
And a stolen innocence that no one could return.
His broken bones and gory gashes
Explained why tears fell from his lashes.
His house was later engulfed in flames;
It was a fiery inferno that no master could tame.
His house became immersed in colors uncontrolled,
From ruby and copper to the classic molten gold;
The child wished for death, for he'd grown tired of crying,
And sooner than he'd thought he found himself dying.
His heart had been broken, his mind had been shattered;
His purity taken, his body battered;
The little boy said these words as he took his final breath:
"Please, dear God, don't let Daddy know that I had prayed for death."