A broken stem, a wounded form,
A scar that whispers of the storm,
Yet from the depths, a strength unfolds,
A blossom brave, a story told.
Through trials faced, and battles won,
The sun still seeks the weary one,
And bathes the cracks in golden light,
A testament to inner might.
For beauty blooms in fractured ground,
Where resilience can be found,
The shattered heart, the wounded soul,
Can rise again and make them whole.
So let the scars be seen with pride,
A journey etched, where life did hide,
A testament to what we've known,
A fragile bloom, that still has grown.
About the Creator
Buzu
Verses sculpted from the heart, I'm a poet navigating emotions with ink-stained fingertips. Crafting tales that dance between reality and dreams, my words paint a symphony of feelings in the canvas of life. 📜✨ #PoetLife #Wordsmith
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 Curtis5 days ago in Humans
Comments (1)
Beautiful poem, thank you for sharing your work! :)