We have risen from dirt
To be stewards of earth
To account for all life
Free of value or worth
Evergreen in our growth
To divine suns of truth
Chlorophylling our minds
With a fountain of youth
Still losing ourselves
In an arboreality
Nurturing seeds
Of an elementality
One of sequoias
Who weep with the willows
And make their leafbeds
Out of solid rock pillows
So spill your coal ash
In our wildest streams
You can't stop the flow
Of our lucid sea dreams
Repainting the blue
Iridescent with reefs
Transcending horizons
Of vision's motifs
Where Shamu think tanks
Dive deeper than whales
Exploring the depths
Of serpent shale scales
Who drill to our cores
As we quake with the force
Of Pompeiian eruptions
And wars of resource
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 Curtis7 days ago in Humans
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