She was small for her age and a little crooked
With a smileless slumber and a shock
of black curly hair swept across her furrowed forehead.
Her eyes were dark soul-less pools stagnating in the silent suffering
Of the child displaced by war.
Motherless and mutilated, futility replacing fear.
©Alison Jean Hankinson.
This is for day 26 Napowrimo
Hues of Hankinson 