Finding Life After Death Poem by Rohan Sen

Midnight and madness,
sitting by the window,
aware of guilt,
my tears the quilt,
used as shield,
against your eyes,
which see through the disguise,
worn by our marriage of years,
replaced by miscarriage and tears.

My little baby, born, stillborn,
his little clothes, unseen, unworn,
You say not my fault,
but your eyes, full of lies, point fingers,
and in your daily gait, the thought lingers,
Was it she? Did she kill our baby?

There is no explanation,
there are reasons none,
the world may be a tainted lair,
but I would've painted it for my son,
in colours bright - make the darkest seem light,
and been a good mother,
and so I ask you for another chance,
ask you to soften your stance,
how is a woman a mother,
if her womb cannot produce another?

Yet you hold my hand (so glad)
and tell me yes, you're sad
but we shall never try,
I see you longing to cry,
when you tell me the doctor foretold,
another mishap, will not hold,
'pregnancy for your wife,
could end up taking her life, '
and as you weep, in tears so deep,
you say my life, my wife,
is dearer to me than a chance,
to be father,
but you'd rather,
adopt a little angel, alone and unblessed from above,
whom we will grow with an equal love