On a sweltering humid July morning,
she was escorted by her best friend
as they walked through whispered prayers
into a beige brick one story building.
She laid on a padded table in a cool
gray room.
She didn't want this,
she felt coerced-
in youthful vulnerability she obeyed
her abandoning boyfriend.
Her goosebumps rose as she waited
in a mint-green cotton gown,
her shallow breath in and out,
her mouth and throat parched.
She looked up at overhead glaring
lights,
God's own.
She felt she just couldn't tell
her Mom,
the words wouldn't come forth,
a searing secret bitter on her tongue.
Fragments of jagged thoughts cutting
her psyche,
She was sweating cold through her
forehead.
The abortionist was as if an
anonymous shadow,
his voice distant,
flashes of kindergarten in her
eighteen year old's mind.
Waves of utter pain,
her heart pounding,
her ears thunderous with throbbing,
a sudden stillness,
God's own-
another of God's own,
returned to Him. ~
Abortionist
Consent Not Granted!
I Am That I Am
~Murder is Not Private Matter~
If a newborn born can be killed,
Then why not you or me?
What gives you or me the right to
end a life of a full grown baby?
You and I have a chance to fight
back or to run.
A newborn, NO!!....
They will never see the sun!
They must die!
We call it "choice" in the name of
a godless humanity.
Who think Darwin, created you
or me!
"Murder by choice, "what a perversion!
But we must save lions and squirrels?
Mon Dieu, what a twisted and sick
mental aberration.
Dedicated to all the unborn human
beings, scheduled for slaughter today.
And right, I expect no responses.
I speak for them. Nobody else will!
People may stop reading them.
Popularity alway~ any cost,
*You can find no-kill shelters for
pets in any town.
But a mother, like a Roman of
old,
Simply gives the abortionist:
A thumbs-down code.**
September 30, 2019
Panagiota Romios
Because life is precious
And slipping from our grasp...
The cold-hearted abortionist
Rips the little baby from the womb
Torn human flesh
Discarded in a pool of blood
The death knell of our doom.
W.A CHOLT. Copyright Fergal O Reilly 2018.
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.