The poem starts:

“Small feet freeze/ In darkness,/ Snarled, twisted, resting Below my heart./ Hidden hairy blackness,/ Limbs with webs crushing,Sickening me …”

And the weird little poem goes on unrelenting in its imagery and drawing a picture of a dark helplessness.

Anyone who has experienced sexual abuse and assault as a child will recognize the moment and the terrible feelings. These children hold the deep knowledge that a few minutes of malevolent degradation of their bodies and spirits leaves a lifetime of damage.

I wrote the weird little poem a few years ago, for no particular reason other than the words were nagging me to write them down. To this day over 70 years later, I cannot tell you what happened. I can only tell you that my feet were cold, ice cold.

Cold statistics

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One Child Is Too Many

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