I've had four lives that grew inside
that darkest inner place, gently.
But only three of those survived
to live, and feel, and breathe with me.
Only two beyond three days
Did carry on the endless fight,
and of those only one retains
the gift of precious, perfect sight.
Each gift special, birthed by me
though only two and four are here.
One and three have long since gone
to places where there is no fear.
And in my heart there drips a wound
of agony to never heal,
as I remember living pain
that dying children never feel.