Hawk-Eyed
The wisdom of a dream-bird
a hawk flies above
his beautiful feathers ripple
like water
he speaks to me
without words
he says
life is beautiful
all happens
in time
there is nothing
to worry
life is gentle
life is
calm
there is no
rush.
But I should be
doing things
I am not
doing them
I watch the hawk
flying
I want to be
like him
he
is above
he knows not
what he is
and he
is happy
About the Creator
Melissa Armeda
Sometimes-poet. Sometimes-novel writer. Lover of food and pets of any kind.
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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 Curtis5 days ago in Humans
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