Infanticide

Mortally wounded by sharp reality,
the child lies cold and bleeding
(a metaphor of the mirth in me)
with tides of youth receding.

Flotsam and jetsam of happier times
now rot beneath the sun.
I mourn the death of sweeter rhymes
that once did freely run

over vast, Utopian landscapes
where the dying child did roam.
Cry for the nigh forgotten wonderspace
which Cupid once called home.

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