*All works of fiction published on this blog are written by and are the property of Morgan Chandler*
I know that a child lay face planted in the sand as waves swamped his life-less body.
He is a child of war.
A person only beginning to grasp the world with his little angel hands.
I know a child that sleeps in a filthy slum tonight.
Diseases lurk in her water and men much stronger than her leer over every step she treads.
She is a child of corruption.
She lives under a government that does not care about her and will let her wither and rot into the mottled sandy earth from which she came.
I know a child who’s mother will turn his sacred house into a heroin fuelled frenzy tonight.
His father will rap on the door and kick it in furiously only to walk through the doorway and kick his mum too.
The thud of canvas shoe on boney flesh.
He is now a child of the state.
He is passed from hand to hand,
Settling nowhere and having a home that only exists in his head.
I know a child that lays in a warm house who’s only worry is if his classmates like him.
His mother and his father kiss him on the forehead as he falls into a mighty sleep with dragons and witches and fantastical lands.
He is a child of a society that cares about the white and the middle class and let him sleep soundly while murdering children with bloody hands.
I know all these children,
And you know them too.