Poetry Bastards of the Unwashed Village
Friday, 3 July 2015
untitled
drip, drip, drip,
the blood of an
unborn child drips,
from the mother
who feels her own pain,
who will never see
the child with no name,
as the blood of pain
drip, drip, drips...
Wrote that 3 years ago, typed from memory.
~Cia
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