Orphanage/Children's Hospital: Port-au-Prince, Haiti

I wear white, but
it feels like mud;
and they cry.
Every day,
they cry
and scream
their pain,
wanting warmth
when I am cold.

There are no coos
nor giggles,
just little hands
clenched into fists,
fighting.

I fight myself,
this white,
those cribs, but
they are quicksand.

Outside is rotting,
and we're sinking.

Author's Note

I know the title is obvious, but I was wondering if it should be stronger or if you like that it provides a context.

Reviews

[Antonio Valentino]

it's official, my eyes are in love with your words...

you are not a writer though, no you are not.

you are a painter of tears and wishful promises.

loved your painting
the colors, were just right

:)