Stillborn

In the memory did the spirit rise again to call her name
Touch Freud’s child, down deep inside, and play its wanton game
Drove a dagger in her freedom
Ripped a talon through her choice
Left her distant without reason
Soul in shackles without voice
~
All that she was … stolen
Promise broken … sullied, raped
A churning morass of solitude that could not be escaped
~
All that she was … forgotten
Sweet innocence … bled, defiled
A lifetime of dysphoric tomorrows a curse on mother’s child
~
In the darkness did the children, pointed sticks of madness play
Pierce the deep, wound eternal, light of birth now sullied grey.
All alone she wonders weeping
In the bloodied virgin white
Never finding simple refuge
From the blackness of her night
~
In despair, golems taunt her, dancing lies of demon sprite
Echoed voices, hushed and haunting, invocations of delight
Pillowed branches writhe and tremble
Lock her in the maddening womb
All that “We” could ever ask for
Stillborn … alive, within her tomb

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“Stillborn” © John Anthony.  All Rights Reserved.