The darkness of the womb, all begin and end perhaps?        
         Within this loving tomb.        

         Do the dying choose to go to the light?        
        Or does creation through contractions insist?        
         In death do we fear the blow?        
         That gives our cheeks the glow,          
        in the presence of a surgical mist.        

          Do contractions mirror an ebbing heart?      
        Its pace a beginning, yet its pace another’s end?    
        Do we fear what we don’t know?      
        Because were not allowed to know,      
        where life and death, light and dark,      
        all choose to blend.