RUDIMENT HOLLOW

RUDIMENT HOLLOW

(A sad journey from birth to
a future reincarnated birth)

I sing against embryonic walls
sad beginnings taking shape inside the chord
seeds of doubt sprout in liquid fields
as yet unseen eyes care not of nightmares
becoming suddenly, painfully real.

Origin both deep and gifted, sigh
the canal moves me along the tender bleed
from warmth into ejected chill of Life
splashed with crimson light, the bowels exceed.

Born into hands that catch but don’t caress
the placenta severed from this choking mess
a gush of breath defines the human torn
from fetal sleep to living, blinking newborn.

Laid across the bed of mother’s chest
warm milk to infant lips soothes weary unrest
until I sleep in air my first night’s debut
is waking, eating, turning, on solid cue.

Had this child known ahead what was in store
I would have chosen a different route than what
I bore.
Borne to pain and equal sorrow’s bend
a twist of fate that ruptured in the end.

I grew but not under Mother’s grace.
She gave me up to an Orphanage in her place.
Learned abuse at the tender age of three.
I longed for the ancient womb that protected me.

Not to suffer as I did; this life a thorn.
Had I the option – I would have been
still-born.

Their tears would have been short-lived, anyway.
Especially since they never meant to stay.
And I would be back somewhere in Heavenly Town,
no one having known I was ever around.

And I wouldn’t know what all I know today.
Enough to keep me going the other way.
Another child born instead to take my place.
Maybe they would have loved its infant face.

But we can’t undo the damage that is done.
I do the best I can, and then some.
I never bore children of my own –
not to go through what I did, the seed is sewn.

From cradle to the grave, the journey ends.
They bury me in mountains; I hear the winds.
My dust returns to its welcoming Heavenly Abode -
the only place where I knew unconditional love.

Again, I sing against embryonic walls
sad beginnings taking shape inside the chord
but this time I abort the caustic birth.
Never forgetting my past life on Mother Earth.

Their tears will probably be short-lived, anyway.
Imagining, as before, they never meant to stay.