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DIRGE OF THE UNBORN
The Owl hoots
In the smooth silence of midnight drama,
3 a.m thick darkness
Unrivalled by neither the moon nor stars.
She moans and wail in excruciating pain
Forgetting the envisioned end from the beginning,
Her pain shrouded my pleas from within;
'You can not deliver the goods
When your heart is heavier than the load'.
Reverberation & movements announce my readiness,
My time is overdue in the confines of the sack
I am eighteen months old...wow...
And belly-laden, without seeing the light.
I care less about the place we are,
It doesn't matter the doctor's gadgets,
Equipments or resources available,
I just want to make
my first long awaited cry.
But was it to be??
My virtues pleaded with a soft conscience
And I hear them say: "it will be okay",
With a totality and constitutional agreement.
But consent majority rule
Only in groups of one, which are you.
They said it will be successful and fine
But in less than three hours
My fate was sign, sealed and delivered,
They said I will be complete
But now, I am empty
And what are left are pieces of me;
Echoes of distress,
Ripples of life and soul,
Swimming in the pool of tears, Momma,
Regrets hovers on the faces of deep depression;
They could have been more cautious
And Orthodox in their operations.
"...although we've been successful in million cases", they said.
They never boast more loudly
than when there is no one to expose them,
Lie away to your heart's content
After all, never will they be
another Christ resurrection to contradict thee.
Smh.

VickWizzy
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
Copyright ©2014.

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