Antinatalism

The comfort of eternity
In darkness. Neverending rest.
Unconscious to the fire, the cries,
The coldness of a silent breast.

The simple bliss of ignorance
We treasured. Which we now describe
And measure in the poetry
Of pleasures it would have denied.

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About bsixsmith

I am a writer of stories and poems - published by Every Day Fiction, The London Journal of Fiction, 365 Tomorrows and Det Poetiske Bureau - and a columnist for Quillette, Areo and Bombs & Dollars.
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