I wrote a poem.

Warm and cradled,
an infant dies in strife

Within, not yet born,
forever loved, eternally adorned.

Heat of a summer night;
mad-eyed, long-haired devils came to fright.

A California story;
in the south they lie still.

Asked to terminate,
Refuse, she will.

A husband gone,
a lover remains;
true love endures
not the father,
but a kind and loyal man.

Years roll by;
the other stands accused,
fleeing to a country of sin.

And always,
back to the night.