Up the dark stairs I am carrying

a dead child in my arms,

a child no grief can comfort,

a child who was never born.

Through the apartment window, streetlights

shine on that small pinched face

as I sit by, rocking the cradle

that will bring his heart no peace.

The soundless wail of his crying

echoes through empty rooms.

The breathless hush of his breathing

shakes the walls, like tiny drums.

Not all the hands of the lonely,

rocking that cradled shape,

all the lullabies of those unloved

can put that child to sleep.

And if I doze off while rocking

I shall dream, among many dreams,

how up dark stairs I am carrying

a dead child in my arms.

Copyright 2010-2012 Paul Petrie