The Melancholy of Birth

In white beds by white walls
a fresh candle flickers
as it rises and as it stalls
and the baby
turned to its side
a heart born on a sleeve
with no place to hide
and if there's one thing
it doesn't need
that's another life to lead

no mother could simply walk by
for this was a child
with eyes of stone worn
against tides of change
and this child born to die
was never to wear away
and the mother transfixed
with white palms to clear glass

the baby lay still
fists clenched around thumbs
at peace, a mask already held well
yet surmass this small flame
that holds the one light
through falls
through triumphs
births, deaths
and endless lifetimes
the baby reaches to a mother
whose fingers already burn

a mind racing, thoughts chafing
for a detachment
she will never feel again
a new life consuming
old phases exhuming
stripping, ripping away every why
grieving it's leaving
and in it's blaze
a natal love, like that fire
lapping both their lives away

Alissia Lyons's picture

I write poetry and short stories in my spare time but only recently have started sharing my work. Generally I find the subject matter of my work is quite dark however I wouldn't describe the style as dramatic or overly sombre. For instance, my poem 'The End of the World' draws on limerick form and the language is simple despite what could be seen as macabre subject matter.

Last updated February 18, 2013