Here I lie desolate
Finding succour in poetry
The twirling of thorns
in a once happy heart
creates sad lines on pages.

Gone, baby gone?
unkissed by the sun
as life falls into afterlife.
Empty womb bleeds
and garbs our hearts in black.

Tears shed and dried
We live with hope
For you shall come again
When you do, please stay.
We wait….

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