My soul aches
I mourn my unborn children
I mourn all those works of art
conceived from union of mind and soul
that never came to be.
Like small unborn infants
they yearn to materialize
grow
be seen
have a life.
Alive,they are caught in a web
fighting ferociously to be liberated and take shape
but as time passes the struggle subsides
their voices fade
they slowly become numb and still.
Then, with the corrosion of neglect and frustration
they finally decompose and melt
disappear without a trace
not even a faint memory.
Where do all my unborn children go?