Last the days
though one night
is impossible.
Survival
through sheer
what?
Enduring cannot be
wasting and withering,
and begging
for death.
Many others
have survived.
Speak of the night
like a fond
ghost story,
still tingling
with horror,
because newborns
are worth it.
Worth it…
It’s not the worth
I fear,
nor the lack
thereof.
It is the night.
The beginning,
the middle,
the end.
The dark
the pain
the sick.
It’s only worth it
because it’s gone,
away,
the month
passed by.
But there’s always
the whispering
spirit,
“What if
it never ends?”
What if
I die like this?
Because nothing
can save me
from it.
Author T.S. Lowe 