The Killing of A Child

In the damp, soggy soil,
With still a wetness in the air,
My blood began to boil,
As I declined into despair,
The sky was an empty gray,
Filled with something chilling,
But never in all the day,
Would I think it was a killing,

Oddly, very little blood,
There was almost not a sound,
And muddled in the mud,
I was sure not to be found,
It was over as it had begun
The little struggle barely needed,
And then my death was done,
And my mother had succeeded,