Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Disasters, Delights and Other Detours - 21. Age and Unborn
Age
I'm weary of death, and he of me,
though soon in his arms I'm sure to be;
I'll shudder and shake in his cold, cold clutch
where it's winter eternally.
I've never been fond of skulls and such
and black fashion clothes don't thrill me much,
a rainbow of color I'd lief as take
when stillness my heart must touch.
Though sleep has its charms, I'll stay awake
recalling to mind that cheerful ache
I woke to each morning, content with joy,
for embraces I'd not forsake.
But now that I'm old, my body's coy;
the cells run amok, my bones annoy,
yet if I could utter just one last plea,
I would ask to lie with my boy.
Unborn
It lies upon the sheet so white,
in short, unformed, truncated plight;
it never kicked, it never stirred,
nor called with voice of pure delight.
It had beginning in the word,
intriguing, yet to all unheard,
conceived with unromantic haste,
as fleeting as a cloud or bird.
Our brightest vision once it graced,
but now it's soon to be erased,
for nothing more is there to say,
and further scrawling such a waste.
I chose an awkward path that day
when I took pad and pen to play,
and weighty verses tried to write,
yet all my stanzas stillborn lay.
- 2
- 6
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
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