From Magic City Morning Star|
I am nestled and nurtured, warm and content, within the safest place on Earth, where no foe can make a dent, my beloved mother's womb.
And who on this Earth, or even in Heaven or Hell, could ever predict, or dare tell, that this place would become my trap and my tomb?
Why are you doing this to me? And for help, to whom shall I call? What did I do to you to deserve this? This shock, anguish, agony, and all.
My panicked screams are fervent, even strident to my protector, my beloved and nurturing mother dear. Yet they pierce through my surrounding darkness only to vanish unanswered in the outside air, as if no one is there, capable, or perhaps even willing to hear.
In a foot race, my now rapidly bounding and terrorized heart could easily beat us. Yet I am but a mere lump of internal tissue to be vanquished and wasted. I have a name, but they insist on calling me "fetus."
They invade and violate me, my tiny limbs broken, my tender pink flesh torn. I can fully feel pain, but this overpowering agony I am defenseless to stop, I think because they also call me "unborn."
I was once so loved, and peaceful, snuggled safe and warm. I gasp and grimace as if my seemingly unending torture only continues, stretching all of my sinews, with more of my skin torn. My confused and bedazzled young and defenseless heart pleads for mercy, now feeling as so very alone, as betrayed and so bitterly forlorn.
I am too young to process, but old enough to sense, I beg someone out there to hear me, to intervene and please stop this now, and explain what is happening to my now haven, turned torture chamber, where I am entrapped, shocked, and confused, and where sudden suffering is so indescribably intense.
I feel cold, hear noise and am blinded by a blinding beam of light. Burning tears stream down my innocent cheeks, my remaining arm outstretched, trying to ward off this inconceivable fight. Where once I ingested and grew to better thrive, my little fingers are reaching for anything to hold on to, as I now struggle, just to so desperately survive.
My last tormented memories of my once cherished and beloved home will be of strange objects, sensations and horrific turmoil, and my uncomforted wincing with the harsh snapping of my little bones.
The clinging remains of me will be treated, lest mother bleed. I still do not know why I was so reviled and expelled from her, never again for her to love, and to internally feed.
The area will be sanitized to supposedly cleanse that which was demonized, but scant memories too painful to bear will be suppressed as she is later told to dress, as if I had never lived and dwelled there.
Up from high in the air, I look down upon my mother, alone with her thoughts and feelings, as she silently weeps while clearing from her eyes her frazzled and tear-matted hair.
Between sobs in her desolation and despair she so bitterly whispers, "Oh my precious one..." and I know she is referring to me. Why, oh why then, my maternal guardian, did you condone this unprovoked punishment that in both of us has now caused such deep and stinging agony?
If you are so conflicted, why then did you make this choice? When at the end of nine months, you could hold me close to your breast, and in our natural bonding, we could both so unabashedly and freely rejoice?
What then changed this natural course of events? What influenced your mind and froze your once warm, loving motherly heart? What was it that so overpowered your maternal instincts, what was it that was so powerful and immense?
Was it despair, despondency, financial woes, fear, drugs, or an excess of imbibing booze?
"No," as in her loneliness she loudly and angrily exclaimed in the cold solace of her room, as she reflected and recalled my peril, anguish and doom. She pondered and soon knew what was the cause and what ended it all.
"Twas simply the common trap she, and others had been deceived and led astray into. An empty promise, a quick fix, with supposedly no strings to cling to.
The cause was not feelings, finances or fear, nor impairment from drugs or even an excess of booze. Just the haughty and insidious excuse, the one too often and too simplistically called "the right to choose."
And so now in this room, so white, cold, sterile and smelling medicinal, did my grisly demise occur, simply because of a choice, and nothing at all even remotely hateful or visceral.
Of me, there are only left parts, some indiscernible, and none deemed worthy to save. Had they collected them, they would be hard pressed to fill my tiny, unnaturally sized grave.
What was once a warm, radiant sunny day is now silent and dismal, as the sun recedes and the day succumbs to dark.
My mother goes home and takes a pill from her "healthcare" practitioner, who recommends it to help her sleep soundly and well.
But in the blackness of night for her, there will be no bliss, just loneliness, regret, and unquenchable emotional Hell.
If only I could have spoken before that mother/child bond was broken, I would have pleaded, and if she could have heard, she would most likely respond lovingly to my cry and call.
Instead, she drank of the modern secular elixir, the Siren's alluring trap which all promised would fix her.
Now I am gone and she, in her new found Hell, lies anxious and awake, as the clock slowly ticks down to dawn. Where are all her friends and advisors now? The ugly deed is finished, and they are suddenly gone.
No one was saved and no one was fixed. I was killed and she was tricked.
Now she lies awake, tormented through the night, which nothing to hold or coddle, but the regret of her "choice."
And now, also the sudden and sickening realization, that God saw it all.
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