In life's gentle grace,
Beauty blooms in every space,
Embrace simplicity's embrace.
A warm, soft trace,
Celebrate its unhurried pace.
About the Creator
Printique Studios
A poetic journey weaver, I craft verses that paint the canvas of life with hues of dreams and determination. Their words resonate with empowerment, encouraging others to forge their destinies and embrace gratitude.
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More stories from Printique Studios and writers in Poets and other communities.
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 Curtis2 days ago in Humans
Comments (1)
Short but beautiful.