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Abortion

Abortion

A dream slipped out
Of the hands of the dying night,
Falling to pieces,
On the floor of dawn,
Aglisten with the first rays,
Of the budding sun;
No splinter, yet pierced,
No wound, yet hurt,
A bruised self
Bled, anemic yellow;
Following the eyes,
And heart-rending shrieks,
Of the restless sparrow,
I saw slopped on the floor:
A yolk-stained foetus,
Injured by its fractured shell;
Without the next birthday,
A stifled existence,
Dumped in the dust-bin
Of social scoff,
In tear-less bereavement,
With a gnawing guilt.

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Comments (2)

No splinter, yet pierced, No wound, yet hurt, A bruised self Bled, anemic yellow; Following the eyes, And heart-rending shrieks, .... my God . ohhhh this description is terrible...... my dear poet..... i was in tears.... thank you . tony
There may not be many poems that deal with the subject with so much emotion and realism. Hats off to you, Atul. I would like to quote a few lines that bare the immorality of the act: A stifled existence, Dumped in the dust-bin Of social scoff, In tear-less bereavement,