I am

[ChristopherSea]

the unborn witness of birth and death.


The surface of my breath is separated into boxes: souls growing, slow,
And in my shadow-stuffed hollows, I swallow my souls alone.



Inside, they know,
I am the one who loves them so.

This reads as if it were a riddle recited by pompous microscopic omipotent being. Am I right?

Seriously, though I recommend a much larger font. Additionally, there are ambiguities and contradictions herein. The I, they, them, souls are lifeless. The italics convey little.

Perhaps, this poem is unborn and needs a few more months of nurturing in the womb.