Rosemary's Baby

In the dimming light of a London afternoon,
Rosemary cradles her child, a fragile dawn,
Her once-bright hair now veiled in violet doom,
A whispered promise of silence in every drawn ring.

The air is thick with a scent of thyme and bone—
Birdcage echoes from Bindon's midnight cell,
She drifts between dreams cruel as a stone,
While mourning hymns rise from the church’s old bells.

Claire’s hands tremble, faith in a hidden spire,
Sir Gavin glances, his eyes wet with conceits,
In the darkness, a curse climbs like a liar,
And doubt coils around her — a relentless beast.

The apartment, a mausoleum of restrained dread,
Beats under her chest as she holds the babe tight,
Rosemary's baby — a final, quiet thread,
Where love meets the abyss beneath ever‑present night.