Dear A World Full of Possibility,
.
Another reinvention, remade anew,
A challenge accepted to chase away-
the blue,
This is the one; The time is now,
Definitions drafted,
Solemn promises avow.
I have put in the hours,
I have bought the supplies,
This is my calling; This is my pride.
I was a baker once,
With flour-strewn floors,
I painted furniture next,
Majestic restores.
Now writings the game,
Pounding away at-
the door of my soul,
Language filling in spaces,
Making me whole.
.
So, thank you.
.
Forever yours,
R.
About the Creator
Rachael MacDonald
Avid Reader, Sometimes Poet, Occasional Writer, and searcher of truths often lost in the breaths between candy-coated lies.
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Red Shelves
Death is a black hole. Think about it. A black hole is the corpse of a star, something once warm and bright, now come to the end of its life cycle. But some will argue that the cycle of life does not end with death. That death is merely another path we must walk once our bodies expire and our souls ascend. In that moment, when the fuel in the star’s chemical tank hits empty and the shiny matte coat explodes into supernova, the mass left behind – the corpse – becomes a black hole. We understand that, around such a vast cadaver, dimensions work a little differently in death to the way we’re used to in life. For example, light cannot escape the pull of a black hole when it hits the point of no return. That’s where it gets its colour. Space itself is contorted by a black hole. That’s where it gets its funny shape. Even time. Time slows right down the closer you get to it. The closer you get to a black hole. The closer you get to death.
By Matthew Curtis4 days ago in Humans
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