Robert W. Flournoy


I am dead at 19.
The souls of my unborn children
strain at the boundaries of the universe
screaming for release,
demanding their days in the sun.

They are pursued
by the progeny of dead generations
lurking in the shadows
and swallowed
by the black hole of my early death,
never to witness the star fire and comet glitz
Of their own passing.
Their light will never shine.

I am dead
And so are they.

Did they see me?
Did anyone?