with every stroke of my pen, my spirit takes a flight to heights unknown,
my heart and soul, entwined, forever unbound and free.
i find a universe profound and infinite.
words so pure and true, a love affair so tender and enduring,
in their gentle embrace,my hopes and aspirations take shape and grow stronger.
stories and tales, my essence resides, testament to a profound devotion.
pen in hand,starry and boundless skies of imagination i chase.
for in the sacred art of writng, i find myself complete,
passion and desires full, akin roses in the morning sun.
my heart finds its steady, rhythmic beat, with each line lovingly penned
my love and fulfilment entirely won.
About the Creator
Arraycrypt
🖋️ sometimes we need silently look into ourselves and things around us. Writing is the art that enables us to express our ideas in a visible and tangible way. 🚀
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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 Curtis7 days ago in Humans
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