The strife of taking a life

“Let’s begin,” says the doctor all proper and prim.

The nurses, they gather, their eyes all dim.

 

Like ravenous wolves their machines suck life,

out of a tiny living thing that can’t feel any strife.

 

This tiny thing is a seed, a grain of sand,

like a pearl in a clam that rests in your hand.

 

Yeah, you sitting in your seat!

This problem can’t be beat!

 

Billions of tiny souls being killed,

because of someone’s strong will.

 

Burning alive inside their tomb,

they cannot escape the womb.

 

But those who do are sentenced to,

breath their last in a corner by a shoe.

Guide that inspired this poem: 

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