A mother's guilt of aborting her unborn child
This night has lost its fickle beacon,
My shadow forsaking its importunate hold,
The rose I bear is a weathered crimson,
An austere keepsake of my story untold.
Crystals of silvery frost languidly drift,
Swathing my morbid form in a pale caress,
An icy teardrop splinters from my eye's rift,
Branding a new furrow with gentle finesse.
My heart is bereft as a naked tree's boughs,
Dark and brittle without the verve of life,
I reflect on the altar of my shattered vows,
Slicing through memories like a dull knife.
The abyss beckons me to join my unborn child,
Whose life I was coerced into extinguishing,
A terrible sin to which I have not reconciled,
Decades of yearning have left me languishing.
I hover at the fragile threshold of insanity,
One tiny push can propel me over the brink,
Subtle threads of hope tug me to tranquility,
But a delicate hand beckons my mind to sink.