I am an artist
rich in thought
I make for soul
no profit
no pleasure in being bought
I am an artist
piss to pot
I create for whimsy
a plentiful life plot
I am an artist
time can allot
grace for my grandeur
greed for my drought
I am an artist
I battle self, society, and doubt
What’s this nonsense
what’s this talk of clout
I want an audience
but God says,
it is you and I
leave the rest out
About the Creator
H. Leigh
My work explores the lure of science and metaphysical matters. Through both fiction and nonfiction works, I weave the elements of the two. What I birth are imaginative tales of brave souls and an ever-expanding universe☀️
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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