Stillbirth

Poem about the death of a poem.

Stillbirth

In a small room
Doors and windows securely fastened
To discourage intrusion,
An idea was conceived.
The mind’s womb
Strove to suppress it, in vain;
Inspiration took root.
Nutured on an active brain,
Feeding on thoughts,
Words following a pattern,
An embryo took shape.
All night it laboured
To flow forth
Through pen and ink onto paper
No electricity, no moonlight,
Thick oppressive, almost tangible darkness
Repressing its emergence.
Wait, child, to be born tomorrow.
But when the sun came up
The labour pains had passed,
The embryo was shrivelled
The poem dead.