I will sing the color grey
the only way for new grace
as I walk this long journey
see splendor in the lined face
Grey softens the searing day
allows the sun to lay and rest
brings nuance and subtlety
clouds in tree, dove in her nest
I am still enthralled with teal
and cobalt, peal of laughter
yet, grey has so many shades
it fades to pure clear water
I feared becoming old, yet
I found I could let my truth
become me, be quite becoming
a new beginning, in sooth.
About the Creator
Michele Cuomo
seeking. writing.
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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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