Mark Edgemon has been writing for 30 years. He writes and publishes short stories, articles, poetry and scripts, as well as, produces audio comedy productions for over 700 radio stations nationwide.
Contact Mark through his website, Creator and the Catalyst.
In a dimly lit room, death stalked silently, posed for his
birth.
The abortionist, practiced his profession in cerebral numbness.
Dinner was waiting for this mangler of innocence
And lingering darkness for the mother.
Gripped, twisted with instruments of steal,
The good man of the living, struggled against death's grasp;
Clipped alive; cut; screaming in vacuum silence from the womb;
Torturous fate for the unwanted, this discarded mass of flesh and bone.
A single eye set in a partial skull, now lay in blood on the sterile metal
tray,
Looking at the woman, is if to say, "Why? Why would you let him take me,
mommy?"
She, now free of obligation, free to exploit her desires with other men.
Carried deep an absence, haunting her soul; never abating.
Future husbands; offspring; yet she continued grieving over the smile that
was not!
The End
Go on to: Broken Toys
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