The five year-old child                                      

Crawled In the darkness,

Trying to avoid the scurrying roaches,

And the discarded pieces of food

That littered the old wood floor.

The smell of whiskey hung in the air,

Along with the stink of vomit.

She heard noises and headed

For the door to the outside.

She heard the curses, and blows,

And screams that had been cut off.

                                                                        

She made her way through

The discarded beer bottles, 

And the dirty clothes that smelled

Of ripe perspiration and old grease.

The girl stayed low to the hardwood floor

And knew, if she made a sound,

Footsteps would  come, in her direction.

A razor strap would snap in the air

Before hitting her own backside.

She moved like a cat in the night

And pushed open the cracked door,

So she could pull herself through.

 

She crouched in the shadows                            

Of the porch, before racing across

The grass to a Sycamore tree.

Soon, she stretched out flat 

Under the Sycamore’s branches

Whose leaves danced in the wind.

She looked through the canopy of leaves

In wonder to the heavens before her.

 

She saw the sky filled with stars,

And she traced her fingers

Across the Milky Way.

She saw the moon come up

And cast a silver path

Down to the earth.

 

She held out her hands

To catch the moon light,                                      

That caressed her finger tips

Like a living thing.

 

“I choose,” she said.

“Here is where I belong.” 

” I choose beauty, not ugliness.”

“I choose peace, not hatred,”

She closed her eyes and slept.

Yu/stan/kema