A silent maw,
carved into the velvet of spacetime,
drinks the universe
without sound, without shape—
just the slow, spiraled collapse
of everything once known.
Its edge—a burning halo
of fused copper, liquid bronze,
and ionized fire,
spins at the speed of forgetting,
blurring into a ring of sheer velocity—
a lens where reality folds in on itself.
Around it:
deep red streamlines,
maroon currents of orphaned light,
taper and twist like oil on black water—
gravity made visible.
In the distance, galaxies drift—
fractured spirals in periwinkle dust,
nebulae bruised in plum and violet,
their tendrils stretched thin
by the pull of this ancient siphon.
It does not speak.
But it rearranges everything—
light becomes arc,
time becomes thread,
motion becomes stillness.
The accretion disk—a
maelstrom of starbone and ash,
where photons skim the surface
but never escape,
trapped in orbit,
a crown of failure and flame.
Beyond the pull,
light teeters, bends, breaks—
an aurora of shattered timelines
wrapped in lapis smoke,
flickering in rhythm
to a silence we will never unhear.
Each orbit marks a memory—
not ours,
but the universe’s—
stitched into the architecture of collapse.
There is no edge,
no true surface,
only the illusion of descent
into perfect black—
not emptiness,
but the compression of everything.
We are bystanders.
Frozen,
watching entropy dress itself
in colors we’ve never seen before.