Does a tree wish that it bore more fruit?
Or a plant long for blossoming flowers?
There they stand, majestic and mute,
Silent and stoic, through days and hours.

But people are painfully set apart,
Feeling emotionally lost and forlorn,
With a twisted gut and heavy heart,
When a familial hope is never born.

The dream of a family, a ghost in the night,
An embryo that will never fight to exist,
Never to feel the warmth of light,
Never conceived, yet sorely missed.

Is life better as the person or tree,
To be devoid of pain, or it running free?

By Paul Webster