The expecting of expectations
A woman has her labor pains, and I my own, except when her liferenews itself, I go on my daily chore, agonizing over this giant size
unborn, with grieving dolor twenty-four seven, I scream just the same
I cry more often these days, twenty-four seven, in my private mourning
pain, never quite sure whenever my birth may come forth, perhaps with
hopeful weary confidence, left sighing against the ebbing of loss time
This Poems Story
Romantic loss
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