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Nat Lipstadt May 2013
I sit in the sun room, I am shaded for the sun
is only newly risen, low slung, just above the horizon,
behind me, over my shoulder, early morn warm

Slivers of sun rays yellow highlight the wild green lawn,
freshly nourished by torrential rains of the prior eve

The wind gusts are residuals, memoirs of the hurricane
that came for a peripheral visit, your unwanted cousin Earl,
in town for the day, too bad your schedule
is fully booked, but he keeps raining on you,
staying on the phone for so long, that the goodbye,
go away, hang up relief is palpable

The oak trees are top heavy with leaves frothy like a new cappuccino,
the leaves resist the sun slivers, guarding the grass
from browning out, by knocking the rookie rays to and fro,
just for now, just for a few minutes more,
it is advantage trees, for they stand taller in the sky
than the youthful teenage yellow ball

I sit in the sun room buffered from nature's battles external,
by white lace curtains which are the hallmark
of all that is fine in Western Civilization,

and my thoughts drift to suicide.

I have sat in the sun room of my mind, unprotected.
with front row seats, first hand witness to a battle unceasing

Such that my investigations, my travails along the boundary line
between internal madness and infernal relief from mental pain
so crippling, is such that you recall begging for cancer or Aids

Such that my investigations, my travails along the sanity boundary
are substantive, modestly put, not inconsiderable

Point your finger at me, demanding like every
needy neurotic moderne, reassurance total,
proof negative in this instance, of relevant expertise!

Tell us you bona fides, what is your knowing in these matters?

Show us the wrist scars, evidential,
prove to us your "hands on" experiential!

True, true, I am without demonstrable proofs
of the first hand, my resume is absent of
razors and pills, poisons and daredevil spills,
guns, knives, utensils purposed for taking lives

Here are my truths, here are my sums

If the numerator is the minutes spent resisting the promised relief
of the East River currents from the crushing loneliness that
consumed my every waking second of every night of my years of despair
                           divided by
a denominator that is my unitary, solitary name,
then my fraction, my remainder, is greater than one,
the one step away from supposed salvation...

Yet, here I am sitting in the sun room buffered from
nature's battles by white lace curtains which are the hallmark
of all that is fine in Western Civilization

I am a survivor of mine own World War III,
carnaged battlefields, where white lace curtains,
were not buffers but dividers tween mis en scenes,
variegated veins of colored nightmares, reenactments of
death heroics worthy of Shakespeare

Did I lack for courage?
Was my fear/despair ratio insufficient?

These are questions for which the answers matter only to me,
tho the questions are fair ones, my unsolicited ******,
they are not the ones for which I herein write,
for they no longer have relevance, meaning or validity,
for yours truly

I write poetry by command, by request, good or bad,
this one is a bequest to myself, and also a sidecar for an old friend,
who asked in passing to write what I know of suicide,
unaware that the damage of hurricanes is not always
visible to the naked heart

These hands, that type these words are the resume of a life
resumed,
life line remains scarred, but after an inter-mission, after an inter-diction, an inter-re-invention
in a play where I was an actor who could not speak
but knew every line, I am now the approving audience too...

But I speak now and I say this:

There are natural toxins in us all,
if you wish to understand the whys, the reasons,
of the nearness of taking/giving away what belongs to you,
do your own sums, admit your own truths
query not the lives of others, approach the mirror...


If you want to understand suicide,
no need to phone a friend, ask the expert,
ask yourself, parse the curtains of the
sun room and admit, that you do understand,
that you once swung one leg over the roof,
gauged the currents speed and direction,
went deep sea fishing without rod or reel
and you recall it all too well, for you did the math
and here I am, tho the tug ne'er fully disappears,
here I am, here I am writing to you,
as I sit in the sun room.

Memorial Day, 2011
hard to believe this poem will be 8 years old, soon enough; I well recall writing it and will return to the sunroom soon for inspiration and an afternoon nap.
Tamara Fraser Aug 2016
Newspapers are only covered in ***** print;

of despair and distress and danger playing master of our moves.

So I can’t talk to you through that.


Paintings are for love songs left unsung;

they are the inner kept journals of unrequited dreams,

scrawls of abuse or lumps of hurt, growing like tumours.

You wouldn’t understand.

So I can’t talk to you through that.


Music is only for the sunlit realm of lovers found;

of certainty and confidence and devotion above the sordid,

tangled affairs of wayward souls.

Living in a fantasy to escape the loneliness aching in soft spots inside.

So I can’t talk to you through that.


Letters are lost in nostalgia;

a celebration to be had, words unspoken for decades,

births and deaths, reserved for life events detailed in the past.

So I can’t talk to you through that.


Movies are just reenactments of dreams;

stunning heroes, masters of skill, justice seekers,

adventures of awe, loves broken but patched together with stronger yarn.

A world of little lies to helps better cope with heartache and grief.

We can’t immortalise ourselves in something

when it runs the risk of breaking.

So I can’t talk to you through that.


But I can do something much harder

then writing or filming or singing or painting…

I can give it all up, over to you.

I can trace patterns across your shoulders as you wake,

our special language which tells you I love you, I’m trying to trust you.

I can write you little notes, decadent words and sultry ideas,

and make a trail for you to follow to me.


I can be vulnerable in your arms, more than skin and internals

and a framework of bones.

I can be more real with you than I have never known to be possible.

It’s not just me showing how much I need you by the length I hold your kiss,

or how long it takes for us to disentangle ourselves from sleep, how often

we see each other naked.


It’s more the heart I dare draw on your skin with my lips.
DaRk IcE Apr 2015
She howls at the moon in the midst of the night. Seeking lost souls trapped and screaming in fright. Her cries play melodies of melancholy trials lost, her spirit stolen callously at a grave cost. Roaming the dense fog on hallows eve Watching the dead rise, I'm sure many were known to be wise. As she so gallantly skips past ancient tree's they whipser vintage stories about Victorian times and all its glories. Tree leaves construct reenactments of ****** wars riddled of death and destruction among differences of the people, only wishing to gather and come together at the church steeple. Her howls are searched among the hollow lands above makeshift graves of innocent people seen as second rate, not suprising of their final fate. Beings born with no guidence for a undeniable ratchet societies views, she howls as she hears the news. Her ravaged heart however battered still beats, I am She Wolf.
Barton D Smock Oct 2013
i.

at Beggar’s Pond with cousin I seen this bullfrog leap open mouthed from a mud bubble at a low bird and it took the bird to depths.  we wowed our way through reenactments but there was no betraying.  frog thrash nor bird thrash came to relieve the sight which had passed

had become
our post.    


ii.

men on break from the hauling of your stretchered father     men parked     yonder.

my long stick tied to yours and may our greatest concentration be with us     may it scoot

god  

over.


iii.

this ladder once leaned on the Tower of Babel.  black cat, these are the jokes.  

as crow
& thunder  
battle.


iv.

then again, a pair of babysitting sisters thought he was

plenty fine     like a little

*******
tornado.


v.

I look it up about bullfrogs.
JFK
The assassination of President John F. Kennedy
To many this has always been an unsolved Mystery

JFK was shot in Dallas, Texas on the 22 of November
We are still mourning him, and will always remember

Abraham Zapruder had no idea what he'd be filming
Would be under scrutiny by the public for viewing

Some said the shots came from the grassy knoll
Where they came from no one will ever know

Jackie Kennedy in terrible shock, crawled out onto the limousine
She could not recall doing this, when the Secret Service Intervened

Walter Cronkite reported this shocking news to us in tears
And in all his years of work, he will forever be revered

Jackie in her blood stained suit stood beside Lyndon B. Johnson
When he took the oath of office to be next president of our nation

Oswald told the world that he was a patsy
Jack Ruby shooting him on TV was ghastly

Life Magazine chronicled the events
Filling each page with all JFK contents

To this day there still are reenactments and movies
And everyone like me still feels this is newsworthy

Copyright 2013
All Rights Reserved
PS Aug 2015
I wish I didn't have to go
So I could stop and say hello.
I miss you most when I forget
The way you look at me and yet
I miss you so when I remember
The reenactments of November
Because in that moment you were there
Hold my hand, stop and stare.
I saw you after such a time
you're still a greaser but in your prime
And I realised the clearest thing
For you I have a song to sing
And chance is quite a friend you see
That I'd see you and you not me
But I wish that I had said hello
I wish I didn't have to go.
This is what happens when it's late and you have a chance encounter with a guy the day before.
CP May 2014
I vaguely remember our car rides together
I wished they'd last forever
We drove around singing Queen
Imagine what could have been?
I'm nearly eighteen,
I'm beginning to forget

I vaguely remember us at Disney
I cling on to the memory fragments
Reenactments of my mind
I wish our lives where redesigned

I've been told you rocked me to sleep
Where are you now when I'm trying to fall asleep?
I vaguely remember your bad jokes
When I awake you're still not here

I imagine our little conversations today
We could play or sway or you could help me with an essay
Possibilities which will never be
Because you did not stay

It dawned upon me, I have spent most of my life away from you
That makes me feel so blue
I wish we could start anew
For I so desperately miss you
Phylicia Dawn Jul 2011
Personal happiness applys a standard to move forward.

On a pessimistic note, as it sets a willful mind off track in fear of mistakes,

separation resets our procrastination entitled to self loath for regrets.

You set yourself up for failure.

As we refrain counting back the steps of recreational substance abuse,

it's just asking for counter clock-wise reenactments.

On a positive note, foreseeing a common continuum of false thoughts that manifest as it resets.

A realization amung the powerless cause a brave forsight continued in conduct

to bewilder a disappointment on a controlled lack of ongoing self destruction.

We have to have enough self respect for selfishness to look what's in front and forget what's behind us.





Help is on the way in a matter of how you portray your feelings.

We control it by a friends mission to seek what's missed.

We get over it, with a mother kiss.

Hope for the best is all we can admit.

Hit or miss, love is in us, as we walk the plank of faith.

Like a prom queens gown that doesn't fit or a stain on a wedding dress.

Our imperfections are what made us perfect.



Lazy skills in double vision cause a second opinion.

We call for an ambulance to cure a broken heart we all get in this lifeless jungle we live in.

When the doctor we call for has nothing but a dollar sign with no intentions for a death wish.

We trust this, "why not? What's the worst that could happen believe me *******?"

Trust me and my degree, but in the first stage of having a healthy baby you learn

to trust a crazy sinerio in a **** testing community.

We are raised in this blind sighted society as walking zombies.

One heart beat turned into separation anxiety.





So I drink beer, as I'm always giving out my writings, like a discount on sale.

Like a kitten we pet, I share them and do nothing with it.

I wonder why I feel what I have to say means nothing like a decoration.

When my friends truly relate, with a bottle in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other.

I don't know what to do with them in the end of a conversation.

I will say I like what I have to say, but it's just that it goes nowhere.

Just me adding a another selfless crime to reset our minds of how we read in between the lines.
Deshunte' B Jan 2016
Studying the lifestyle of others I couldn't  help but feel as if memories of my mothers pain buried itself deep into my subconscious,  forcing a outburst of reenactments towards my loved ones & friends. Filled with such aggression I had to muzzle myself from personal opinions and jus breathe. Step back an overlook  the distractions jus for me to see the bigger picture GOD had placed in front of me. Life is a lesson  in it's self so learn from it and open your eyes to beauty within yourself. No need for filters here jus a love for a higher power & unity through truth in the knowledge of divinity.
Forreal free to comment and Share with others if you like. #2016
Ciske Feb 2015
I find myself
staring at the tv
infront of me,
and i miss you.

I miss your
silly faces,
your reactions
and reenactments,
of a show
playing in the background.

I find myself
being lonely without you,
your presence,
longing for you
to be here.
Sia Jane Oct 2014
It was in wander
   For not lost was she
It was in wonder
   For without sin she led,
The tree bearing sweet fruit
Enticing her
   Forward.
Lust sent a lumber puncture through
her spine.
   Upwards it shot
to the brain, cerebral forms
    into a red beating heart.
It excited her, the
Freedom found in such innocence
    pulsating quivers.
She waited
                  Adam to her Eve
daisy chains falling from her neck
framing a prepubescent chest.
Such tender collar
Bones, hooks temperately fastening
white knotted cotton,
hand sewn dress virginial
White.
Annabelle's life, a melody of
                   melancholic cacophonic
raspers,
from asylums.
Former patients; Briarcliff Manor
residing in her; misery.
Innocent runnings from grave
Dangers of,
                   stark raving madness.
For, today, she wasn't embroiled
                   as Arden's pet.
Instead she was the little girl so born
to be,
before the woman was stolen
bound by a physicians sick
nightmarish reenactments.
For, today she was
Free.
        a starling
                       passionate
                                         darling.

© Sia Jane
I am not sure how this started with such innocence into such darkness. Light and dark. Fear and joy. Extremes.
This was written out, usual way, pencil and paper, scribble until I run out of everything chasing in my mind and then type up.
I don't edit a lot of this very spontaneous work.
It is very cathartic.
Reine Monroe Sep 2016
I want love,
I need love,
Where is love....

They tell you love is in family,
But they hate...
They tell you love is in you,
In order to find it,
you have to look in the crevasses of your heart,
But within you ,
It's reenactments of a ****** scene ,

Tell me again ,
Can't you answer my question?
Where is love ?
I'm looking for love ,
Love can you see me ?

You want love from me ,
I'm not earthly ,
I can't give you what you need..
My love can't even nuture me,
When I'm in time of need..
How can I learn to love you,
When I'm half loving me...

I create duplicates of paper hearts,
Made up of broken sea shells ..
Forgive me if I'm distant but loving,
I'm convinced I need help...
Morgan May 2013
I've never been scared in my sleep
My dreams are ordinary reenactments
Of the pain and disorder that is my life
But I do believe in nightmares
The kind you can't wake up from
I met one down the street
Last time I was brave enough
To climb out of bed
Andrew Kerklaan Dec 2011
I loathe you.  
  
From the pit of my very soul I feel that you have wronged me beyond forgiveness  
  
Like the crack of a whip or a slap in the face my hatred is sharp; unyeilding.  
  
Pictures etched in stone are unclear when I try to look upon my hate...  
  
To glance upon the sun would be the image of my mind  
  
"Black as holes within a memory"  
  
The daunting truth of the brutalisation  
  
My unsound justice is left unserved...  
  
My rage lives on, fed by the dream of nightmares uncensored to my eyes  
  
Ever to be sought your death comes to me on swift winds  
  
Like a bad handshake your name leaves me dead inside, with a taste in my mouth that will leave you spitting blood!  
  
Like memories left unchecked, imaginative images claw into my mind's eye giving life to the blood of comic book reenactments  
  
Pictures are dark while tones of my hate are made bright  
  
These forces are relentless...  
  
Dark clouds roll in but the sun peaks through into our realm  
  
For a time my vengeance seems less fleeting...  
  
A new day is afoot and my nemesis close at hand  
  
The end for you my friend is my beginning to be!
Uhh Who Feb 2013
in between awake and dream
is when my mind for the first time decides to go aflutter
wandering the endless plains of "what ifs"
reenactments
possible regrets
maybe?
nah, never that
on one hand
i want to sleep
yet my brain is awake
never stopping now, fifth gear
on the other hand i dont want to forget it
i could never live with that, after all
what if its the best idea i ever had?
2/25/13
first one got deleted, sadly not the exact same but oh well
DaRk IcE Apr 2015
Wonderous lustful sips of magic aiding in my abandonment of your memory, clinging onto my heart with retractable claws while the blood pours into a vile.
Reenactments of past unsuccessful battles fighting for power having lost lives as the ultimate sacrifice. Prideful shadows of shaken spirits begging for normalcy, hiding behind warrior's images never to appear inferior. Strongest survival teqniques arise grim consequences.
                             Barricaded beneath rubble
In the core of your tropical tsunami. The aftermath, devastating as is every ending of our endeavours.
Jon Shierling Jan 2015
There are some people who like history as an interest or read it for a hobby, maybe go to reenactments and museums and such. Interested they may be in it, for those people history is still an external thing, dead and gone, merely entertaining or knowledge giving. For others, we experience the history and it becomes a part of who we are, the flavor of what we learn imprints itself somehow. For us, there is no such thing as an attic full of "stuff". There are attics full of stories, of connections between ourselves and what brought us here. The stories and pasts of others, are also reflections of our own.
Ken Pepiton Jan 2023
Disorder, chaos and I,
had a line in a story,
a didactic novel,
we aspired to emulate,
the reaction to dire straits,
the experience, not the band.
As seen on TV, Champions of us.

But, not me, for some reason,
I've begun to think, I made a choice,

but, odds are, I could not help becoming
thus enabled. Alive. Beyond the grand lie.

The Bible. Yep. And all the Creeds
accredited as bonds for Christ,
in the battle for more, what?,
more time to be, surety for strangers?

free to be useless, unless this, ah, caveat
imagine
magic,
ritual reenactments, mental sets, props, stored

properly folded and stacked, each act, a lesson,
each season
a new song, a new dance, each season
more is grown known, each year
each day
each instance stretched to hold a moment, ment
-already
known
re-coknown

feels like happy would feel, if haps were
becoming more regular,
fewer total awe, as a we forms on a point,
over decades, this new medium,
you read it and say hey you'ld
do well to think how peace
is said to be a mortal gift,
you can make it,
where none is,
no life debt due, that's grace

dealing with dying, and rebirth
with a new core processing unit,
a new heart of flesh, not OT desperately
wicked old heart
of flawed mankind,
no more of that
in the chosen,
called, perhaps, yes, drawn,
to the emptiness, Sartre,
passed, sixty years ago,

fretting for the lie believers, I asked
what good could I do, if I popped
the fear of God is the beginning
of Wisdom
riddle?  
Yada, knowing, yada, mock all you think,
knowing is what makes rich men rich,
and no sorrows with it.
The point. Nobody is sorry for you,
so God makes hell?

Knowing one's measure,
how long have you left to prove
what? To prove I can live to 100,
happily, I'll try.

But I feel it wrong to swear an oath works,
but for long set locks
on the citizen status,
born free,
ah,
not same as free, by right, by being alive?
- seems same t'me, as an earthling.
Who wars with me, at my age, nobody,
but I am a non participant entity
in the life around me.
Or not.
Why could I not cash out. No cash in. True,
to form, what makes a work
of wordwork worth
a load that could buy a house, a load
is beyond me,
I always, mostly read books
from the library, free,
for my attention
I pay all the attention I have available,
but I have not bought
an unused book,
in years. Freely sent signals preach old laws.
THUD.
ha ha hee, on the echoing green
-----
If I have not written a million words,
each year, since, 2016, I have read/heard
that many, easily, seven big books is a Proust load.
That's a measure for more than a million words,
a Proust load. Pl. Place, AI aha, is being becoming/\?
- you read more than seven big books each year?
Savvy, right, becoming savvy, finding worth,
more than flashes in the pan,
real time spent redeemed,
all, most, instant recollection,
full day pay for one final hour…
this is what I wait all day for, and it flows,
and this flow offers hope, for surity sake,
confidence is its own evidence,
true or false. You know
what you hope for
if I died, it is not as if the mind,
lost first judgement
at the treasure chest rights
to fashion sense and proper up-brangin'

what would a word of advice from a website prove?

Make up a wise grandma,
and call her your faircall godmother,
think of her your guardian messenger app,

like a guardian angel, if angels were messages
in the eternal spirit realm, like email now, piling up
in the eternal spirit realm, common, not set aside,
holy spirit realm, just regular, spirit common
spirits, do not die.
Ah. Good point. Didact, first act, curtain falls.
Thank you all for being minds to aim at.
Ken Pepiton Aug 31
Certain persons among us make claims to knowledge
kept from any who cannot imagine that truth,
we, the every day curious kinds of people,
skeptic
become habitually drawn to knowers claiming right
to tell us one may see what one believes, nought else.

Living words, in message form, why must I see angels?
Whose mind may we leave be in us, if not this one,
alive in constant readiness to give a word umph,

past last clear preconception of a call to pay attention,
today, while it remains time out to redeem in meditation,

be tween one mind's aura and another's… imagining
we see light reflected from sources undetected,
so dark sayings illuminate our directed steps,
or we so say, for we believe we know, now,

is when today occurs, and when the code is broken,
hidden meaning sought with Frankl and Anne Frank,
and dramatic reenactments of battles that inspire
judgment, know who won by who continues being,
any with a will to prove a worth, as a gift in minded
heart felt will to say
we may pay more attention
than we are willing to take.

Easily, given meaningful words… these are the medium,
this is the way we conjoin minds in hives intending
to fill to overflowing, so long as flowers need ***.

==========
Cultured pearls.

Irritatingly apparently real
as any brought to become
by merest of coincidental

rare afflictions with beauty
the initial aim, with hands
put to guiding use, knowing

the growing of the nacre
in total absence of sunlight,
of course, we can't know why.

--------

Words authored in ages past,
during times of congregation,

calling all sundry formations
from noise to align as defined

with hands commands, come
and see the other side of all and
more besides, piling mountains
as clouds in late summer, promise
latter rains on latterly sown seed.

The interpretation of this situation,
now, and not another time, here,
where your mind asks mine explain,

lay it out, tell the whole of knowing
now is when we become our self,
first formed from stories told us,

as true, to assume in storyland,
we can talk with Nature as an entity
who uses words as you would, should
you awaken in a jungle denser,

made afraid for the moment, mind
time pause, now, we think, how say
the sages past, must we treat
with care for fear of proud wrath,

encultured hero worth, a weight
in the bag we measure worth with,

each kernal of barley corn, one third
the inch, which is never taken
for a mile, given will to stretch
the wonder of learning for ever's sake,

indeed, to take each one in a myriad
of steps while helping an officer
of the law of Rome, obey it,
by keeping the peace and pace.

So, long from now, these same words
may live on loosely linked orders
of natural progression as we learn,

stories told as true as plausible,
often include impossibly fortuitous
interference in this clouded realm
of certain reasons asking rational

division of soul and spirit, despite
the rule of Rome, in year 869
of this present domineering age,
whereby soul is spirit and vice versa.

Rightly divided now, by me, today,
boldly going, where some crazies
came before me, to make me pay
attention to the will called why.

Jesus, really? Must we accept
the testimony of mystics, as more
than guessing based
on earlier guesses, up from exstacy,
beyond the first guesses given theory,
suppose, we all pretend to know,
as we are reared to become
those who teach to those so lost,
that only our knowing known stories,
can redeem their worth to truth itself.

----------
Listen, let this mindform in you, think.

In creation mode of mind,
given words for anything named
in the world wide web of knowledge,

arranged in searchible stacks, related,
tied religiously to certainty beyond Delphi,

we trust, as we trusted kings, when few
could gainsay prophecy interpreted true,
after the epoch last ended began, in truth,

measure for measure, an inch is always
three barley corns wide, no more
nor less a length, may be taken for a mile,

as we rethink the idea, charity, feeding needs,
agape, we say means charity, highest form
of love one may bestow, at no cost, true,

charity for which we pay is not the same idea.

I come to offer thought through thoroughly
sieved shards of crystaline ***** scried into,
see, there, that occlusion? that is what you

can never know, until the guru says you do.

--------------
Yes, I do recall verses written,
before exposure to naked truth
that war's glory is as the emperor's
lastest fashions, lasterly erroneously

crowning a child's sense of silliness,
when I was a child, I thought, and still
think many thoughts, what to write,
what to let slip away,
what must be folded to put away,
later, imagining I ask your eyes to see,
leaving no description light might show
either real or made up on purpose to make

believable the reason children are exposed,
to Grimm collections of secular wisdom,
unholy impossible animations, yet,

by the time, I got to Phoenix, I was knowing
days depend from days past, pendulating,
swinging arcing swipes past all pretensions,

loose the bonds of wickedness, comb
the tangled locks of dreads,
Rastaferian dread, wisdom
claimed aligned with wonder weedlike
in trembling fear of hell to pay,
what if we make believe, we two, and you,
we come to here, along these lines, thinking

why is not a factor after all is said and done,
plain and smooth, polished to high sheen,

wedoms welcome any with means to make sense,
share our dreads, show us what it is you think
you know, about the ways truth, per se, makes
where no ways was,
moments earlier, pasts past, perhaps,
happening in all that happens, once mayhap

to you,
aha,
I see, you say, lying with your eyes, but knowing
I can imagine common sense, comfort, ease,
true rest in care akin to told of care in story,

we gather to remind our hive, here we make honey.


------------
Watch the dancing bees, rethink
how few persons on earth can think
there is no mind involved in thinking that,

planning means to become superfluous,
dripping sweet memories, in precious
pricey processes of transubstantiation,

sweet, we say, at a fine fix on the flaw,
we all lie, see, we say we know, we lie,

we lieve being true, as good and useful,
the ology of everything pundits preach,
and teach that we may obey, knowing,

no lie forms from truth's first will to tell,
taste and see,
swallow, and wait… at antepartum,
all we think to ask turns bitter in the belly.
Ok.

— The End —