The hand that rocks the cradle unlike the beast as told in a storybook fable.
Is real and mean with a wrath that reveals the true inner demon it conceals.
Fueled by spirits that inebriate and drives the lack of patience to infuriate.
When a babe that cries in the night is abandoned and ignored by a drunkards right.
Left soiled with an empty belly then punished by the hand for being smelly.
Through the years this child blamed for all the wrongs claimed.
Bruises that are colored old and new each covered kept from view.
Alone and hidden a hooded friendless freak locked in a room can barely speak.
Cuts that bleed from a razors pain spiraling down a porcelain drain.
Watching red watered swirls fade to sleep where dreams now invade.
Dreams that cage the night until reality sadly awakens at first light.
To survive another day if able at the hand that rocks the cradle.