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Donna's Poems
Children of Tradition's Terror

Like smoke it winds itself
Through the room in and out to highest shelf
Resting on each child's living
In the guise of kindly giving.

We make a choice of tender mercy for tolerance
For the weakest of humans with no balance.
Oh the sorrow and the sad emotion we feel,
They make their choice and hold hard as steel.

Frozen in the state of repetition,
All creative force stops unforgiven.
It will not return to a sealed link,
To open vision it can wink.

Run they quick to mindless ritual,
Ignoring the outcome of what is visual.
Sweet it is on the tongue and mind,
Little round cakes to Astarte they find.

And she that golden goddess of the lewd sensual,
Has lived and continues from ancients afar this ritual.
Anything,  to destroy their self, for a time,
She has used her admixture's lime.

All we can do as a struggling issue,
Is wipe our eyes with today's tissue.
The grief goes well into our place,
Branded insults upon our conscience these race.

Evil and wicked it tore at the child's ego.
Lift away that heaviness of long ago.
That we would do, if we could.
That we would do, if we could.

Be thankful, It could be worse,
That goddess curse.
Her full theology and teaching has not total control, the worse,
While diseased, unclean and stinking, she took his purse.

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