Silence is colored gold in contrast to
The silver mode of entrance the turnstile tolls.
Home is a library of old,
Multi-colored with enchanting folds
Where many visitors habit to mull
Over the contents of its walls, and--
Home is the new avenues
I am often wont to peruse
As I walk past a ceremony of invitations
Various titles call for me to choose.
So comfortable am I
In the assemblage of its room,
That I find home always resides,
In every book that I consume.
About the Creator
Imani Talim
***Currently not active on Vocal but am still creating through my FB and IG pages. You can follow me for more content @it_pennedthat
***Twitter is for my shenanigans
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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 Curtis6 days ago in Humans
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