PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

In the incubator before me

Lay Nature's tiny creation

Three and a quarter pounds

Breathing through an intubation



His arrival should have

Made me glad

My son, Why?

Then am I so sad



The verdict

There is little hope

He will not be normal

Never will he cope



What is inevitable

Surgery will only prolong

Let him go for he

Does not have long



Where do I go

Whom do I seek

His mother after

The ordeal is weak



She will never

Understand

It is her son's life

The demand



I too am a surgeon

What can be done?

As future's dismal scenarios

I envision, fears I shun



In hopeless despair

I fall to my knees

I beg The Almighty

For the pain to ease



They stand in the hallway

Clad in white

The time has come

For me to decide



I picked him up

In my arms limp he laid

I kissed the forehead

My choice I made



(-to be continued-)