She calls to me, an object of attention,
Yearning for affection,
Wanting to see perfection in her reflection
Endlessly punished by introspection
Only tasting the sting of rejection
Her heart became filled with malice,
As if by intravenous injection
With no protection, her mind swelled with insurrection
She tried to hide how she feels,
But she's an open wound, a caesarean section
So I guess it's up to me to make the correction
To show her what it is to love,
And lead her in the right direction
To bring back the light in her eyes,
A shining stars resurrection

paler than her skin, was the scar
on her chin, a two inch memory phantom
at a forty-five degree angle

that, I recall most of all,
the lady beside me at the deli, the Saturday
before my daughter was born

I know I looked at her twice
in the flash of time it took to order,
two pastramis on rye

both of which went to ruin
since my wife went into labor
the moment we sat to eat

we made it to the hospital
in twenty minutes, though I don't remember the ride,
my hands on the wheel, the traffic lights

we hit every one, my wife said,  
yellow then red, and those were perhaps a portent,
an omen of what was to come:

thirty hours of breathing, heaving,
fetal distress, a caesarean section, a beautiful
daughter, who lived thirty minutes

I can't usually see her face, except
when I close my eyes to sleep, and then
as a small circle floating above our bed

her visage smooth, baby pink, full of light,
though it lingers but a moment, before I see the scar
on the woman's chin, the meal uneaten

Look closer...
the winding trail
is baked to perfection,
bearing the scars
of a caesarean section.

Only the snakes
dare travel along I-8,
one-by-one the seasons lie prone,
in heat this sun will castrate.

The burnt aspects on faces
don’t smile or frown,
they peer out as residue
to places perished in the wake of
a cityscape’s head trauma,
calling out to the heaven’s above
as they await her to rise
with wings from these ashes,
in anticipation for a day ne’er to draw nigh,
even the steady fall of acid rain
will fail to wash away such genocide.

A favorite haunt transmutes
into a ghost town,
burning into the ground
the heat seeps into the soul,
and the procession begins again
for whom the bell tolls.

Towers of steel melt
as popsicles on the pavement,
the sun’s punishment
is constantly transcendent,
the noise of sparks and hums
rattle the spine,
today’s forecast is a good chance
of saturnine.

Eerie colors at dawn
make for a spectral scenic view,
picnic lunch in the park
is categorically taboo,
the hunters of men
swoon in subjugation to this tyranny,
weather’s wrath was everyone’s destiny.

Live a little, die a little,
pretend it cannot happen,
but in the end we all windup
as peanut brittle...

I was denied my authority to cut my way out by contraction.
Because there had to be a scar where I was born, something lasting.
I was born 10 minutes after and 6 weeks too soon.
The sun had not come up, I hoped it was a full moon.
The first month, but I missed being a New Year Day born.
I was crowned by Casearean section onto that belly torn.
They say crying forces air, but my air was by incubator.
I was in a hospital in the hospital and it was my Savior.
Doctors looks for twitches and other infant signs of life
One of them probably remarked, He looks like  a Mike.
Because he was a soldier who just marched out the womb.
He survived the battle of birth, and he seems to be soldierly groomed.
I looked at them and thought to myself, I will be well, and soon.
So when I speak everybody would heed that cry.
Because I was made to live in abundance and not die.

Mary had a little lamb
it was a Caesarean delivery,
its conception was even stranger
in a barn under stars up against a manger.

On pudding lane with a pocket full of Posies
little Jack Horner
was last seen on a corner,
he slipped into whispers
and pulled out a plum,
Rumplestiltskin did cartwheels
as he strangled Tom Thumb.

Little Red Riding
when lulled by the wolf
lowered her hood and twinkled her eye,
her ginger bread biscuit crumbled to dust
and all the Kings men could ne’er reason why.

So fairy tale this and fairy tale that
trick all the rabbits you pull from your hat
for all of the things that remain unexplained
make up a story
and give it a name.

https://wolfgarwords.com/about/

In the mist of the morning sun,
where the Winter, where water's run,
where the fog lifts and the dew shines,
Where birds sing and wildlife signs,
Where exercise is keeping to the guidelines,
whether it is Coronavirus or Tuberculosis Bovine,
from a coughing person or a coughing cattle,
or sat at home watching the news channel,
or staring out of the window at the skyline.

In the mist of the morning sun,
Where the spring. Where the Flower Bloom,
Where the birds sing and Wildlife Assume,
Where Exercising is keeping to the guidelines,
Whether it is Coronavirus or Swine Flu,
hearing the Cuck-coo, hearing the shrews,
From Coughing person or sneezing pigs,
Seeing the graves being dug, hearing the snapping of the twigs.

In the mist of the morning sun,
Where the summer, where the early morning come,
Where the birds sing and wildlife run,
Where the summer holidays have begun,
Water gun or favourite son,
Where exercising is keeping to the guidelines,
Whether it is Coronavirus or Chikungunya Virus,
Or Children and Adults suffering from retrovirus,
or just a plain old summer Myxovirus.

In the mist of the morning sun,
Where the Autumn comes, where the early morns dawn,
where the cold air comes and bonfire night drawn.
Where exercising is keeping to the guidelines,
Whether it is Coronavirus or a basic streptococcus infection,
worried about the doctors finding a coronavirus connection,
worried about family and friends disconnection,
Rejection, subjection, protection, deflection,
Injection, ****** anteflexion, disinfection,
Imperfection, Caesarean section, General election.

Every virus and disease, All started as novel,
In the start Killed hundred's, thousands even millions,
As much as a novel virus/disease pandemic feels awful,
Government seem to be unlawful,
Mother Earth might be going Menopausal,
Humanity has become so hostile,
If you think novel then your wrongful.

'When the Birth cord of Ego enthralling phenomenon is wrapped tight throughout hyperboles, A mass-concentrated caesarean is birthing its tools in steady rips off One, in escaping its distasteful option.'
~