Baby Roast.

Daily, many

are vacuumed

into tiny black

bags of innocence,

which are then


tossed into the

gaping maw

of incinerators.


Curled into

fetal commas,

during their brief

pause on earth,

they are reduced

to the ashes

of future's denied,

from kin to kindling,

from infant to inflamed

forgotten and shunned.

Are there graves

somewhere that cradle

the millions of

babies roasted.

some  distant

landfill nurseries

where their

cindered remnants

nourish tiny flowers

amidst the refuse

of humanities castaways.

Oh, what a legacy

for archeologist 

several centuries

from now to find

masses of coal black

fetal remains

curled into

question marks

of cruelty

from a dark past.




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