Each cell passed out of this body, shed,
Another day which I have bled.
Potential child, who won’t be mine,
But at least my ‘girl parts’ still work fine.
With sorrow colored in drops of red,
The pain is more, than in my head.
An infinite sadness, an imagined face,
But only emptiness takes its place.
Only an egg, and Nature’s price,
Unfruitful, lonely sacrifice.
But not un-mourned, no, this I see…
Will I ever a blessed mother be?
The tick is faint within this mind,
But with each cycle, the clock’s unkind.
Distant dreams, passed in a woman’s blood,
And I wonder…sometimes…about Motherhood.
~ C.L.R. ~ © 2007