Be brave, my looking glass of life.
Ill did we not want, null returns void,
Yet I am, not null, not void.
A voice meets, underneath.
A purpose brought unto you,
A promise led into view.
Juxtapose grains of sand,
Time is in this land,
Change the current, watch it fold,
The filament does not yield if cold.
Shower of cremation, seen before, seen again.
Where have we been,
Son again I say unto you,
Fall not into the bilge,
Peace be brought unto you,
Peace sought by passion,
Fear culled by understanding,
Course fuel burns fast,
Cultivate, refine, unto unbecoming,
The Force shall set you free.
Cataclysmos ad incrementum;
About the Creator
Keep reading
More stories from Danahae Barraclough and writers in Poets and other communities.
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 Curtis3 days ago in Humans
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.