The Dust of Memory

Here I sit in nothingness, asleep
while I close my eyes to darkness
as it falls around me.

There is a line darkness does not cross.
And still there are shadows:

flesh doesn’t wander over spirit or death.
(The flesh is quickest to disagree with eternity;
the bones are slowest to turn over in graves
of dust and water.) Spirit can never die.

Spirit never dies while we are awake but
sleeps at night like a universe of endless stars
expanding into nothingness, to never reach
over the edge of an infinite void, a dark hole
of remembering everything and giving it more
weight, more gravity to nothing escaping,
as every thought is compressed into words

℘℘℘℘

P. M. Flynn holds a BS in English from East Carolina University. A devoted roaster of organic coffee and enthusiastic baker of cookies, he pairs his creative pursuits with a long record of publication in respected online and print magazines. His debut poetry collection, Shadows on Moss, was released by Resource Publications. For more than fifty years, he has explored the deep interplay between art and theology, a commitment that continues to shape his writing and imagination.