A grieving day to follow prizing night,
Quintessence of self-sorrow, hazy blue,
One brief display of hope for pathways new,
Now all dismissed, no luck with dawn's first light.
Had I the skills to do the damn thing right:
The verbiage and wit to lull and woo,
The song that story-tellers all pursue!
Instead of cock-eyed prose, so tired and trite.
Now put aside flirtation with your grief,
And shake yourself, Con-boy, just write the next.
(Perhaps redemption lies within the text,
Some seed to grow anew to self-belief)
A coffee and a laugh will help to thin,
With growing heart, rejection and chagrin.
About the Creator
Conor Darrall
Short-stories, poetry and random scribblings. Irish traditional musician, sword student, draoi and strange egg. Bipolar/ADD. Currently querying my novel 'The Forgotten 47' - @conordarrall / www.conordarrall.com
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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 Curtis4 days ago in Humans
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