Strands of confection flow from your crown
Windows hum your radiance.
You beam makes divots of joys
The Marks from your mother.
You are my favorite color.
The glee from you breast, contagious
Your affection for the odd, infinite
Your heart is a wonder of the world.
Balmy like no other
You are my favorite color
To be on your mind would be my greatest luxury.
To quell your doubts, my greatest ambition
To hold you in my arms, would be bliss.
To love you like no other
You are my favorite color.
Even though the days and nights will change you.
New challenges will shape you
You’ll might be someone else by the time we meet each other
But you’ll always be my favorite color.
About the Creator
Julian Q.
Someone who wants to tell a good story, and maybe be able to pay rent.
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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