'Tick-Tack-Toe, Round I Go...'
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A collective dirge rose
From the conglomerate
Of sterile wombs
Where do the still-born
Get buried in the narrowing
Graveyards of shrinking mind-scapes?
What distinguishes a still-born dream
From a still-born babe remains
A question forever unanswered
The dirge circles around the ears
Like a mosquito in the dead of night
The potted body loses its sensitivity
Sterility multiplies on make-believe beds
The dirge rings loud and clear
In every conceivable corner!
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