and it Kills me

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: January 10, 2014

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Submitted: January 10, 2014

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A A A


Midnight on the bus.  A woman

steps on board, her hair frazzled

and curly.  She finds a seat by a window

 

placing a hand on her middle, she sighs worriedly

and is bothered by a choice, but please. Just listen.

and it kills me, the choice itself. As if something like a child

 

should be rejected, discarded like a fingernail.  She closes her eyes,

leans her head on the window. Her curls sway

as the bus takes off.  It rushes away

 

from the curb, the choice, through the dim city like a dreamer,

breathing deeply.  And the flowers, they can never be

too many, like the children.  Filling the earth

 

with laughter. 

 

And the red tragedy boils in my heart, for those

who see the bundle of cells,  or so they dub

the young soul, as having no rights.

 

A baby, with no will to live? Therefore

no freedom, or right to life?  Is the dreamer then

nothing more than fragrance, a poet striving,

 

to give musicality a name?  Is the blind man a fool

who bows after a scrape of a fiddle tune at the

corner curb, of love and self?

 

Should a mother forget her own

son?  Shall the mountains crumble and the seas dry? Of these

the world will see no end. To the price of life

 

of liberty, of love.

 


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