The innocent cry
Is a pin prick to that pure heart
And the dark dot of evil
Is the beginning of a little black heart

Broken and beaten
Tortured and tender
Grieved and traumatized
Renewed and resurrected

Is a heart’s little story
Until it’s scorched
Because after that
Nothing is left

Except a few ashes
And cynical remnants
Of a beating piece of tissue
Which could once love.