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Blaze it up,
By the candlelight of,
A fine sin,
It should not be burned to a wither,
In my partial mind of reprieve,
The paperback print is all you need to read,
In case you start to feel corrupted, by the strain of another,
Or in the back of the shed where no one will see,
Marshmallows are fun to sweeten the deal,
Very white and fluffy in my defense,
A twisted sense of the word we have all cum to enjoy,
Farewell to the ones in white,
Let the forest consume your black soul,
Treat it like you have never seen it before.
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 Curtis6 days ago in Humans
Comments (2)
I enjoyed this poem.
Fantastic poem!