Unborn!

the last crow flying
o'er this desolate land,
his call of distress

falls on deafened ears...
pools of oil, coal dust clouds,
poisons sprayed over the fields....

faceless bodies walk desperate streets,
in search of bread, water, hope....
the profiteers laugh in druglike trance...

and the children die, unborn!

poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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