A Cradle Made of Sleep
The grim reaper came creeping at my door
to take a life that wasn’t born.
His lantern dim, his footsteps slow,
as winter winds began to blow.
He would not meet my pleading eyes,
but watched the moon consume the skies.
“I have no wish,” he softly said,
“To count this child among the dead.”
I held the cradle in my breast,
a place no infant yet has blessed.
The room grew cold, the candles bent,
and through the dark his shadow went.
I woke before dawn could break,
my empty hands began to shake.
Never had a child lived in my womb.
Is this a sign of my future approaching doom?
