Thro the throes of birth to dawn,
Out from this dusky womb I go:

My Mother pushed, gasping a whimper:
Repeat, fade, repeat, fade . . .
On her last, the Doc, Okayed, Okayed,
While my Father stood me up
On a naked world, many stories told.
Upon its surface, I walked like a limper:

To what path, to what where,
Within me could not care,
Minding a mind, I never minded.
Innocent sight, no terror there,
Nor Light appeases or Darkness I dree:
Neither side could explain,
For me, neither wise nor loud enough,
To fall for bluff or slush in their slough
Yet both enchained me as their Banshee!

Mindless, I subconsciously knew this place and that,
Beneath its rapacious porous soil, I would succumb.
— Those above my door shed for me no pathos! —
Feeble, my heart found valor in every thrum
Yet each fought the sick and pallor pathogens.
Dumb-tongued, all I could do, while heavily I drew
On a big galore of air, was pout, pouting foolish syllables,
Not even the Gods could answer their wailing shouts!

Knowing this, there was a brief pulse of bliss
Emanating from my Mother's aegis chest:
Against it, I laid, turning from this world,
Then found I rested best in her arms she furled.

When I grew on this naked place, many stories told,
This tot was to rot, as my Mother's arms unfold!