He sings at night,
a voice filled with deep rooted secrets,
and a soul full of passion,
lyrics intertwined with truth and fiction,
a pretty girl and a dream.
He sings at night,
soul searching eyes and a heart
consumed with a love story,
words scratching the surface of his mind.
He sings at night,
from the tips of his fingers
to the curvature of her hips,
limbs and lips crashing to the rhythm of his melody.
He sings at night,
pure musical notes of angst and longing,
beats matching the subtle thumps of the sorrow swimming
in his veins.
About the Creator
Sharlene Alba
Full of raw and unfiltered fluid poems, short stories and prompts on love, sex, relationships and life. I also review haircare, skincare and other beauty products. Instagram: grungefirepoetry MissBeautyBargain Facebook: grungefirepoetry
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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 Curtis3 days ago in Humans
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