Wherein now, my stillborn?

Wherein the haven, dwells my stillborn child?
The crib could not illumine gilt enough
or crafted pure, as love and kin is styled
albeit cushioned - in abodes of fluff.

To wonder, eases tears regarding why
and tunes the silence of the still bluebirds,
as Springs' rebirthing season traversed by
which lingers only clouding grey, an' girds.

As I remain within the sombre sky
and plead of brighter days - to this unborn,
it dawns as timely - everyone shall die
and light shall perish all the darkened mourn.

Wherever wings the baby souled divine
assure to find - O' little one, and mine.