A past 'Headline' regarding the burning of aborted babies as a source of energy was beyond belief. It seems the sacrificial alters to Molech have changed only in their architecture from antiquity to today.

I WAS A CHILD
To swing from a rope hanging in a tree
to play in a puddle pretending it’s the sea,
to be the sheriff of an old western town,
or painting my face like I was a clown.

I’ll never do these simple things.
They are confined to dwell in my dreams.
I wasn’t allowed laughter, play, or even breath
before I was born I met with death.

To hear a fine story while in mother’s lap,
to have milk and cookies just before nap,
to open a present and play party games,
to have a pat on my head and be called by name,

I’ll never know these simple joys
I’ll never play with the neighborhood boys.
No pet dog I could name King or name Spot,
no tears and no laughter because I am not.

I’ll never be seen running a race,
I’ll never get to run to first base,
I’ll never know the thrill of first dates,
no one will worry because I’m out late.

I’ll never have a college degree,
I’ll never know the shade of a tree,
I’ll never throw a lure in the water,
I’ll never have my own son or daughter.

I’ll never fail and I’ll never succeed,
I’ll never hurt cause I skinned my knee,
I’ll never know the excitement of reading a book,
I’ll never hear a babbling brook.

To experience these things you must be alive
alas I am not, because of a lie.
I am just tissue so it said in Mom’s file
but I’m more than just tissue, I WAS A CHILD.

By Randy Conway

Mar 29, 2014

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