I. Come let us sit under the sky on a starry night
And watch as the stars twinkle their sweet, not-so-bright lights
Our beings fully drowned in the awesomeness of it all
For out of the cells we have locked ourselves, nature calls
II. Or maybe walk in the rain as the heavens wash away
Bitter and perhaps sweet memories that haunt us each day
Taking each memory away at the roar of the thunder
Draining whatever drains us and putting it asunder
III. Or would standing in the way of the swift wind do?
Would she take the old things and bring the things of new?
Or would she just brush my face as she passes by?
Mumbling a hasty ‘Hello’ and a toneless ‘Bye’
About the Creator
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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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