Terry D. Sutherland

A SOJOURN

It was a sojourn of sorts for a few
For others it was no fifth avenue
Some were slain; most were in pain
Yes, it was a war for the pompous and vain

The strain of hate was a cureless bug.
No elixir could help, nor miracle drug
Only aging by fate at accelerated rate
For youth held hostage a humiliating state

Pound for pound and round for round
No match for the horrible sound
Sullied and soiled and innocent youth
Never knowing or seeing the truth

Not foolish were they; they chose to stay
For values and not for the pay
But the others knew, knew just what to do
They stole innocence, honesty and truth