The risen sun

A metaphoric sonnet of the thoughts of a woman in labor and the dawn.

The mourning of the long time grips me tight.
Oh how I desire the morning's light
where my unflinching pains farewell I bade,
but of the rising sun seems far in sight
of which I have prayed for with all my might.
My hopes of the future will soon grow fade
if the time crawls like a snail in the night.

My tears are turned into fears by my plight,
yet, the rising sun seem like a decade.
The night is a battle I must fight
but my plight has grown to another height.
Then I see the adversary with a blade
proceeding to slit my throat in the night
as I pushed my morning sun rose so bright.

Author's Note

The greatest joy of motherhood is birth of the agony associated in childbirth. This agony is later converted to joy when the delivery is successful.