A rainbow parrot screeches atop the
Marble lighthouse in the benign morning
As seeing the screech which spreads noise
Is blindness of the cascading candy cane
-
The beacons sun illuminates and disappears
All the world, all my world, my mask forgotten
when I look to the sky I see all unspoken thoughts
-
Nor listened to and I step across
The smooth red future an inflamed comfort
That shuts my eyes and my optic nerves
With the coarse white path I find
My future glimmer with yellow light
Then, I can hope for a day when
Our opposite love completes itself
And my love isn’t lost in the glances
To your beautiful face of my same gender
-
And the fluids lost with age of children
Will become one and drown humanity in truth
Filters masked with age with beauty with hate
For we can show who we are as our screeches in a benign morning reveal our souls malignant
-
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 Curtis7 days ago in Humans
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