Born as a dead child,
A hole already dug.
A coffin now to build,
The inner sides covered by a crimson rug.
Life in the infants eyes,
None the less blank.
The mother softly cries,
Her tears running on an empty tank.
The saltiness covering,
Taking over the sweet.
On the grave stands a ring,
A band from around the feet.
A life never to be forgotten,
Yet a life never to be known.
The child now rotten,
Buried alone.
By: Darci Botts
