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Nine Months

Dying is easy. It takes minimal effort. There is a stimulus, a streak of pain that stirs and burns until it ignites. The ignition sparks like gasoline to the lips of a match stick and the flames grow an insatiable appetite consuming the threads that bind that taunt rope to the chambers of your beating heart, to the collapse of the bridge of the soul.

If life is a cruel and unforgiving teacher, surely time is the thief of all innocence; and nobody can blame you. The consolation prize is living in a world, surrounded by six-point five billion people and still you are the royal jester in a court of loneliness.

Betrayal is as natural to the human condition is air to the breath of a pumping lung. You’ve heard the lies before:
“I would never hurt you,”
Or
“I would never leave you,”
How about this one:
“I promise never to do it again,”

Yet promises fall like drops of rain and shatter on the pavement of your skin. They drown you in puddles of bedtime stories but offer neither light nor candle to find your way among the darkness.

I love you to much to lie to you. To bear your precious fruit in a garden tainted by Eve is an injustice to the very foundation of what you’ll become. You don’t belong on a World that rests like a house of cards.

You are a paradigm of perfection. My actions are not born from the thorns of judgment but bloom from the velvet satin of roses that bud only for you.

As you look at me with open eyes, you bear witness to the lens of truth. Corruption is a vice in which you shall be a spared.
Don’t try to move, the inevitable is the poison which licks at your veins like the harsh tongue of a loyal dog.

The girl wanted to scream but the victims of whispers would not escape the prisons of her lungs.

She watched the light scar and tear into the precision of diamonds on the serrated blade of the scalpel.

The taste of cold steel on the sweaty swamp of her skin sent a river of chills down the banks of her spine.

As the scarlet waters of her blood began to stain the table she knew she would never hold the solace of her child in the nectar of her bosom.

She heard her newborn baby cry in the abyss of midnight that cloaked the chalked colored walls of the barren hospital.

As the expected mother closed her eyes for the final time, the echo of the doctor’s words bounced off the walls of forever and carried her into eternity.

“To her, I was Doctor,”
“To you, she was a vessel to me,”
“To you, I am salvation.”
“To you, I am Father.”

Nine Months

John Braxton  Sparks

Morehead, United States

  • Artist
    Notes
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Artist's Description

A woman gives birth to a newborn child.
copyright 2009 by John Braxton Sparks

Artwork Comments

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