The gauntness of flesh is the cruelty of illness.
Stillness of tormented bodies at 4 AM
is not sleep, but unceasing listlessness.
The wounded heart is known through
many tears and sincere utterances.
Unsightly scars denote the attempted escape
from unbearable agony;
Under dim lighting in a small room with heavy curtains,
a trembling insomniac moves slowly.
In pitch darkness, the sorrowful hold onto
banisters in cold temperatures, wailing uninhibitedly;
The chief torment of the anxious mind is life’s uncertainty.
From birth to death—in-between,
the afflicted struggle for breath.
Even in their mother’s wombs
babies become stressed;
Stillborn babies are kissed,
given names, and mourned.
In late cold December winters,
distressed hearts are torn.
Unsettling letters are received before they grieve
starting with, We regret to inform …
In the pregnancy of the void
some wither away, and some are reborn.
The soul’s balm is the healing of love;
But from its inception it must be pure—
and unadulterated in the properties of its medicine.
A winter baby is delivered from her dying mother’s womb,
and through blood and pain, life begins again.

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