Born To Death
By Mark Edgemon

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Born To Death
By Mark Edgemon

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 next poem by Mark Edgemon: Broken Toys
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