Why was I born. Here is a poem I have written in so many ways, waiting for an answer. The problem is resolved. Seemingly it seems appropriate for me. In Silence Flowers grow in silence, The children grow in tears of silence.
Flowers glow with beauty, The children here glow in blood.
Flowers dry up and blow away, The children's ashes will, too. The flowers seeds will grow again, But the children of the cult are gone for good. What she saw, very few fortunately ever view. To her all those deaths seen in piles of ashes, The victims all cut, disemboweled in slashes. It was seen by all and well never be reset.