Broken parts want mending
in catering to your sentimental
and making grave stones
To hold the weight
Of your greif.
I want not judgment
Or thoughts of what could have been.
But the acceptance that my wombs fruit
Decayed
Before it could be
Displayed
and my heart will never beat
In my fruit
Not that fruit.
Pray for new fruit
Someday fruit.
But not that fruit.
It decayed in the dirt
And I'm sad.
But I hold my grief
In wind chimes and grave stones
And sentimental is my pain
For the imaginary happiness
If things had ripened.