The March in one direction,
Toward an insecure end,
Defeat her only resistance,
Keeping relative distance,
To a futile existence,
She had but one insistence,
Upon her life lived,
In equanimous persistence.
The one truth revealed,
When she reaches her end,
Can’t begin again,
Can’t pretend,
Can’t reveal.
Only a concealed light
Shining her way.
She followed it through,
She found her end,
But it was not his end,
His March was not her March,
Sharing steps of untold truths,
Lighting the way down a cobbled street,
She went her own way,
He went his,
The light went dim,
They ran and hid,
Not destined to the same end,
She lost her way,
He lost his,
A drifted separation.
Was this survival?
Or a destined rivalry,
Ordained in the present,
Empty in the future,
Never looking back,
The past obliterated,
By the journey of contempt.
About the Creator
MaxwellJBanks
I am but a struggling poet with much to say, and an outlet that will make your day.
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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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