In Winter’s wake lies planted bulbs
Enclosed in the womb of soil -
We wait for obstinate buds to flower;
overdue.
The hot blood pulses in ears
Blurred and rushing.
Yet - no vibrant explosion of life,
No yelping lamb delivered,
Only the corpse of past fertilities; gone.
My stomach overturned,
The trees are barren.
A harsh gust of chloroform distorts,
Cold, acidic injection sliding down veins,
Eyelids falter staring blanky; never mine.
Tears of wine
Trails down delicate glass.
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