My Foolish Audacity Pt. 3
A Scorn Identity - #7
I yearned for the alchemy
That I am now.
I cultivate enough silkworm
to craft my indiscretions,
into a silk.
***
From the mirror I watch as my body mimics
its movements, and passionately amalgamate
Into one cohesive vision.
An insight composes of nightmares and truths
Beyond anything I could suggest.
***
It is clear as day.
I am Transcendent.
Above all things made of muck,
And everything that was once coy,
No longer has a pulse.
***
I now understand the purpose of the servant,
I see the mockery they made of me,
I will make a weapon out of him.
I will call it my gratitude,
disappointedly, I will not be able to attest to their silence.
About the Creator
House September
We’ll play with each other’s broken hearts. Let us exchange our pieces like trading cards.
I’m too bored to notice, and you are too high to notice the air beneath your feet.
I have poems to share.
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More stories from House September 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 Curtis5 days ago in Humans
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