In the tranquil office of considerations laced,
A dance of spirits, an association characterized,
A pen and an essayist, their bond so profound,
An organization of words, feelings to harvest.
The pen ready delicately, ink's hug so delicate,
Catching sentiments too immense to even consider giving up,
It listens eagerly to the heart's delicate request,
Deciphering feelings, liberating them.
With each stroke and thrive, a story unfurls,
The pen turns into a vessel, as truth it observes,
Ink spills like tears, framing lines of elegance,
Drawing the essayist's spirit in each hug.
Through delights and distresses, the pen stays valid,
A faithful buddy, a shade in the tone,
It winds around together dreams, expectations, and fears,
Transforming murmured contemplations into life's boondocks.
At the point when the author flounders, the pen loans its strength,
Directing through obscurity, similar to a reference point of light,
It knows every one of the insider facts, the essayist's mourn,
However it stays close by, a timeless climb.
Goodness, the connection among pen and essayist so interesting,
A profound woven artwork they weave and offer,
Together they venture through time's interminable ocean,
A romantic tale prearranged forever.
About the Creator
Deepty
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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 Curtis4 days ago in Humans
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