Dream Be The Dream Poem by Linda Marie Van Tassell

When sweet faces are flowers trampled in the dust
and willows are weeping by the river of lust,
and mothers have no conscience and demand their choice,
the innocent suffer but they have no voice.

Buttercups and daisies all wilt in the shade.
Ten fingers and ten toes are wondrously made,
but the body's fabric is butchered and torn.
Someone's daughter or son will never be born.

A life never given the ghost of a chance,
two feet never knowing the joy of the dance,
two hands never holding the bud of a rose,
and fingers that will never open or close.

Blue eyes to never search the heavens above,
a child to never know the meaning of love,
a miracle unborn and covered with shame,
a child unmentioned and a child without name.

So this is the gain of women with a choice …
saline and suction to silence a child's voice?
Forty-five million and counting in the red,
all for convenience and a romp in the bed.

Such be the sorrow and the sin of the stain,
scissors and suction to the back of the brain.
Mistakes made of mountains of women with choice,
and this is the right over which they rejoice.

Cold stirrups hold the feet, pulling at the heart.
God is a dreamer whose dream is torn apart.
Broken limbs make a withered bough without bloom.
Hard hearts and empty souls leave the curtained room.

We do not know heaven when blinded by fears
nor the beauty that burns when drowned within tears.
I see your reflection floating out to sea,
the radiant woman that you long to be.

Let the life within you laying half asleep
have the chance and choice of which you pray to keep.
Do not let the ghost dance upon your pillow
nor bury life beneath the weeping willow.

Challenge the freeway of dark, impassive stone.
Choose the highway where you'll never walk alone.
Wisdom is a butterfly, set your spirit free.
Let the dream be the dream that it longs to be.