"singularities" poems
Where are you Paul?
I'm in Cyberspace Mum.
My Pentium processor has broadbanded me
Into this wondrous realm.
A pixel powered virtual landscape
Peopled by avatars
Speaking Internet Slang.
FFS, *** are you talking about?
She asks.
In so many words.
I **** and ROFL at her incredulity.
It’s full of danger, that Internet, says Mum.
That’s true.
It’s full of paedophiles,
Spammers and trolls.
Hackers.
Chat-rooms and forums
Plagued by flame-wars
And spam enough to fill a trillion tins.
Sites full of viruses, Trojans, malware and spyware.
Cyber-bullies and loons abound.
But I just Love it.
A ****** addiction
Needing every fix.
A realm indeed of quantum singularities,
And imploding nebulae.
Paul Butters
(C) PB 3\9\2011 in Yorkshire.
Sep 5, 2011
Sep 5, 2011 at 11:09 AM UTC
Perfection: skewed over the years;
in our quest for longevity,
in our denial that good things do end,
we have tried to make perfection
into a permanence.
We chase it all our lives:
the perfect car,
the perfect lover,
the perfect relationship.
We've forgotten somehow that
perfection isn't a state of life.
Perfection isn't normal.
Perfection doesn't exist naturally.
Perfection is something we create,
and like all things humans make,
it is temporary.
Perfection is a moment to be lived in-
a glistening diamond moment that
we get to exist in for such a
precious little time.
We breath in and are filled
with satisfaction,
that most powerful ******
We glow in our souls
until it radiates from our faces.
It is the second right after a first kiss,
when you draw back and look into your lover's eyes.
When all things are brimful of possibility and all
futures are open to you.
It is the moment after you achieve
something you worked for your entire life.
Something you bled for, lost sleep and friends
and years of your life over.
It is the second when your child
screams and draws breath for the first time.
When you see reflected in their tiny face everything you were
and everything they will be.
We are perfect in that one moment.
Of course all of it will end.
Your girlfriend may leave you behind after a time.
She may break your heart and carry it with her,
leaving you scarred and unable to love again.
You may lose everything you've worked for
in a single, capricious moment.
In one simple, thoughtless mistake.
Your child will be with you for a time,
but they will grow old and leave you,
never to speak to you until you are on death's door.
Still,
as we sit on our unbelievably vulnerable world,
one of billions in a universe full of singularities and solar flares,
comets and quasars,
evolution and extinction-
Shouldn't we just be glad that the moment happened,
instead of realizing it will end?
Life has so very few of these anomalies of perfection;
enjoy them while they are there,
do not miss them when they are gone.
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 1:52 PM UTC
Twist ye not the tendrils of time
frame dragging by any other name
black holes ergosphere sublimes
pulls spacetime to its slow down game
Those clocks and our clocks not the same
Time's vector smeared along its timeline
speeds along its X axis game
Remains longer on its own line rhyme
Then around and around she goes
For this clock so smitten runs so slow
And where the hands stop nobody knows
Spacetime's drill bit twisted so
This black silken dress of spacetime
Wrapped around this gravity vortex
Twisted infinity sublimes
on the singularities’ cortex
Redshifts starlight to infinity
Photons below values of C
Their orange trails of light I see
These curved, stretched, these twisted banshees
Frozen in space these tendrils of time
My heart beats on ever so slow
This time signature of space aligns
reality to its queer clocks of woe
In front of me coasting along
a singular photon it’s brilliance
flitting like a firefly’s lonely song
wave-like in its own resilience
This photonic duplicity
particle now and a wave the next
surrenders its reciprocity
to this block of spacetime so vexed
Such are the tendrils of time here
to the black holes seductive embrace
These time signatures skewed so queer
From the Dark Mother’s fingers trace
As she smiles at me saying:
“Oh my beautiful child of wonder”
“Blessed be your love and curiosity”
“Of all my spells that you fall under”
“To you all of my precocity”
“So I bless thee and thy lady “Star”
“Your undaunting love of Michele
“Shines on in O Class from thee so far”
“I release thee from this spacetime spell”
These tendrils of time wound round
These whirlpools in space
These wonders of space found
In Michele’s beautiful face.
Dave Proffitt
9/10/2016
3:01 PM
Oct 1, 2016
Oct 1, 2016 at 6:28 AM UTC
Slotting into geological time
"As a man thinks, so is he", ferillergood ye may
as well add as subtract.
Am i right or am I wrong?
Dexter, yeh, that'n
or Sinister.
Being left or right,
That's jest sided-ness, a sort,
a me-trick-able stackable thing,
with an in
side and an out
side and a top outside and a bottom outside
and a front inside and a front backside
and a back frontside with its own inside.
Like you.
Value pends 'pon sorts of things
into similarities of singularities,
if I got that message un occluded or
unveiled of sacred meanings.
There seemed to be no code
"if a man (voice) says a thing that is true, but
I did not say it: does that make it untrue?"
I answered, "Lord, you are truth."
Wow. Look what I said. truth you are lord.
Punctuated equilibrium humm white noise of wonder
can it be?
'Think so.
Sep 11, 2018
Sep 11, 2018 at 3:17 AM UTC
Each of you.
My individual singularities, Dad’s One Thing.
Conceived 1955.
Driven home, progeny, made man, unequivocal, indisputable.
Post-war night spirits undaunted ~ stop ******* me.
*** for you, stopped me.
Can’t make it the way you want. Please stop.
Backing off, I respect real you.
Don’t push me Me.
Don’t dream.
Will dream us.
Short sentence for guilt whisked way beyond what crime could be.
We combine beans and seeds and gourds.
That’s science! Culinary!
Botany, true, but I’m enaturated.
Human pod progressed.
If that’s a word, don’t dream it’s not.
Forget every word.
But make each and every word count.
Then add stash, socked away.
I concede.
Mi casa su casa.
Paint it.
Together.
Made mistake then fixed it.
Copasetic dovetails, my lady and me (not I).
We walk talk island jib.
I like the cut of your yar across the moonlit pool.
Go around with me to all haunts, snow globetrotting shaken not stirred
My déjà vu in futurum videre, I can’t believe.
Asunder goddesses should be together,
While Isis and Osiris boogie like Beatrice and Dante encircled,
Their own private imbroglio invaded
By Goth end time alchemists conjuring copyrights for gelt.
You tell me this short story.
I cringe.
My mind clouds men’s, and then conjures Morpheus.
My shadow child joins me in Paradise,
Deliria dancing in concert with Shakespearean intent.
My daughter’s got more guts in one pinky
Than all that fallen pilot on our island bargained for
In the games that decided who’s hungrier.
You could have been that gal.
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 12:21 AM UTC
We dream a dream of tomorrow,
of fresh starts and new beginnings.
We wait on sunrise for what could follow
in eagerness for happy endings.
"Tomorrow," we tell ourselves in desperation.
Tomorrow, we hope to be; tomorrow, we become.
So we live today in trepidation
for a tomorrow that might never come.
We walk these crowded roads but we walk alone
towards where destiny could afford us.
But we walk in faith to ends unknown
with hearts on sleeves, and fervent wanderlust.
Time, hope, fate- all singularities
colliding onto each other.
Hold fast the spark of entwined destinies
so we could live tomorrow's adventure.
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 1:37 AM UTC
These ideas
Like singularities
Infinitely dense
Violently
Collapsing in
And
The Mind
Is just another Universe
Dominated by
Chaotic
Contraction and expansion
Another thought is born
While another ends
And the gravity
Of some minds
Captivate
Others celestial bodies
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 8:14 PM UTC
some days
some days i wake up
feeling warm and lovely and happy
feeling whole and right in who i am and what i appear to be
some days i go to bed
barely holding my eyes open against the weight of dreams
barely staying in reality a moment longer
some days i want to create
a dream of imagines on paper
and spill the ink of my mind out onto the world,
eagerly showing the creations of my mind and what excites me as far as
what i can imagine and bring out of the ethereal into the only slightly more tangible inner chambers of my mind palace
other days
i want to destroy
to tear, end to end, the world i have created in my mind and every piece of it i have brought into existence
to shred myself to pieces to rid the universe of such and inadequate creature as myself who dares feel more comfortable as a fluid being, more free to explore and weave in and out of the norms set by society
and then i fall, weak and hollow, to my knees,
full of life and brightness that has been pressed to aside by the gaping holes of heaving singularities within my gut and soul
and i feel dark
and wrong
and numb
but then every so often i get a spark of light in the inky dark of me
and it flutters close
circling my form slowly and giving out the slightest bit of light and warmth
sometimes this first Good Thought or Good Feeling will be crushed
snatched from the air in the claws of a demonic and wild gargoyle
but even so, one by one the light spots will gently blanket the gargoyles,
forcing them to lie in wait once more
for who can fight the gentle persistence of a butterfly
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 9:49 AM UTC
*The curious paradox is that when I accept myself just as I am,
then I can change.*
Carl Rogers
my hands can be so prosaic
uninterrupted in the mechanism of gestures
mindless, blinded, tired
of polishing the edge of the world
your hands and their delicate shiver
are used to behaving
trying to learn how to grasp the meaning,
the contours of the void in daylight
or why haters hate
(was it your fault or theirs?)
you are an unfinished landscape
of breaking points and hopeless moans,
oases of quietness, turning points and
electrical paths, buds of mystery
I know nothing about
still, there’s something teasing
written in between
such is coherence: a paradox
-two interlocking unwittingly-
irrational at one level
imaginatively reasonable at another
-reality is framed by negotiation with a god of silence-
two singularities conversing,
filling the air with space
: it is me is you
Like when you erase me perfectly
with a blink of an eye
tired or cynical
with yourself,
or when I crush you
like a manic avalanche in
midsummer day
-there is some madness in between-
after all
shame and shamelessness
cannot be understood
in binary codes
while humility and pride
are two faces of the same coin
it’s been written since day one
this matching choreography of turmoil inside
or just the pursued birth pains of self
-switch, twist, push, turn,
run, hide, split,
break, slip, cut
repeat, repeat, repeat –
the vertigo of life
rhyming imaginary possibilities
new gestures,
new proportions of light
and darkness
in the power of my hands
in the clarity of your voice
we approximate the truth of our last breath
grow old in stories within stories within the story
we tell ourselves to survive the crack of dawn
and so it goes:
the hero decrypting sunset
deepens the story
looking for
some freedom
to be
and I cannot look at you
without
the sonorous light
bearing tenderness
within
I set you free
in my blood
without knowing
if you stay
for today
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 5:31 PM UTC
When someone you loved very much dies, strange things
Start to happen to you, that you don't notice right away:
The hologram that their influence built around you
Turns inside-out; the bulk of it shrinks down
Into one of those super-dense singularities.
Their belongings start to feel impersonal and oddly distant;
Reminiscent of a strangers bags, sitting packed for the departure.
All the love and caring is siphoned out
When the owner leaves existence behind:
The void they left fills with a surreal grace, when viewed
From the novelty of their absence. A breathtaking coldness
Accompanies this second ownerless half-life:
Touching them, your own fingers are burned, frostbitten
Eventually dead to external stimuli.
The rigor travels inward from the extremities,
Making a slow ascent toward the heart,
Crystallizing everything along the way,
Melding it all into lovely, singular geometries
As one cell after another is enveloped.
Until the central core is an unmoving artifact
In the arctic waste, but unable to die.
A frozen cryosurgical intervention of stained glass
Ruby veins, suspended in frozen calciferous walls.
Other people do not notice the changes or see
Not unless you touch them-
Accidentally brushing up against you,
They feel then the penetrating cold,
Radiating outward in bitter waves.
Drawing their clothing more tightly about them,
They search for the taletale signatures of frost,
Wondering if winter came early this year.
Sep 16, 2010
Sep 16, 2010 at 7:05 AM UTC
To observe surroundings
Often results in the discovery
Of a momental occurrence - marvelously unique
Never replicated in both past and future
Madness
Is
Dullness to the glistening radiance of these everyday singularities
Hidden irretrievably in moments quickly passed.
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 9:23 PM UTC
ya want some love but not for keeps,
ya play us well and make the sweeps,
we swept right up off the floor,
we hurried and broomed on out the door.
so take it or go,
make it real slow,
lemme watch ya and think to myself,
"Daddy,
baby, my fine **** man,
lemme watch ya and think to myself,
'When is he gonna trip onto that
fat ****** face?
Pale, ignorant race?'
Not even a trace,
no, no, no."
No, no, no,
not even a single ****** trace
of warmth or love or kindness
or recognition of my humanity,
the sole thing that makes me
a likewise piece of the Earth.
I'm gonna sweep away those ships,
****** doggoned grisly wrecks,
sweep 'em right over the passing waves
and right off the edge of the Earth.
Cuz I don't call NOBODY "Daddy,"
though I call one person "dad,"
"father," "pops" and it pops
I stick my needle through the
pulsing air and it pops
your **** heart pops.
and ya had your fun,
your day in the Sun,
our little run and now,
and now, and now,
oh, now, it's done,
don't make me get a gun.
I know nothin' exists in singularities,
nothin' exists on its own,
vacuums only are in theory,
we are living to our bones
and the living state rests
right into our **** bones,
however,
I can hate you for what you have done.
I can hate you and I will hate you
for every single thing that you have done,
"Daddy,"
"Mommy," too,
the systems of patronizing pater familias
and all working gears of institutional
injustice,
hurt,
pain,
wreck,
my ships may be wrecks, now, too,
but the wind and the breeze are quick to blow
and the direction of the currents are fast and strong.
So just sit there ya ****
sit and **** into your ***** being
just sit there and ya think,
"Why ya fingerin' that doorknob
when I thought I played ya for keeps?"
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 12:45 AM UTC
(I this very am a contradiction to itself)
this which is
the very thing i am
is not at all a multitude of singularities
but a single multitude of multiple singulars
i am large
and small
and enormously
a colour daft as starry days
and brightly nights
and with pale meter
my hards are soft
and softs are hard
(and i am like an onion
in petals of purple skin
an acrid flavour imps
my beam of darkly
steeply cooler hotter
breaths that buzz
like wondrous flies
in ample valleys or
cotton pasted flesh
in denim
)your jeans were on my floorIfoundthemthismorning
and i woke up to call you just so i could touch your voice with my ears
and kiss the treble of its throat with my gangling soul waxing profusely
with sparks of verdant poems blossoming in the uncommon pit of the stomach of my gross futile blithe brain because you made them with the
errant tattoo of your slight and tremendous music bustling its enormous
yawn over the roof of (my) rainbow hard heart that would like to comment in Your plunk of navel ringing tiny glittering barely hairs my smooth and
pinkish crumpled crumbs of love and sprinkle you with careless *** sometime maybe SWOON.
Apr 26, 2011
Apr 26, 2011 at 8:20 PM UTC
Will someone ever understand me?
As simple as it sounds, the word ‘understanding’ is an uncanny term. To expect understanding from others is like a screaming paradox that uninvitingly and inevitably gives its RSVP. Definition of understanding varies from person to person. While some term ‘compatibility’ as basic understanding, others think understanding as a means to gain affirmation. Both interpretations sound alike but in fact very much like bibliophile and bibliomaniac. It gets peculiar as we proceed.
Why in this world do we need affirmation?
It’s profoundly queer to ask for acceptance. Do we really need ‘approval’ for our existence? We’re not illegal. Illegal things require approval. Drugs require consent. We don’t need to prove why we should be accepted. Giving heed to such a peculiarity is equivalent to symbolising yourselves as illegitimate. You have a birth certificate. You’re a registered citizen of a country and you have a house to live. You go to school/college/ work. You’re normal. Believe me, you’re not a felon.
Why don’t people fulfil our expectation?
Major Irony Alert. Expectations being fulfilled is, I believe, one of those rare miraculous occurring in our lives. When people get it, they find the solace hard to digest. Just when they are faintly ready to accept it, they change the course the things by doing deeds to blindly adhere to the balance of sad and happy. And when the ruination has been already done, they crave for it. Dear fellow beings of earth, stop expecting. It’s purely a hypothesis. The permanency of the damage expectations leave behind needs no explanation. It’s one of the most obvious and self-explanatory dictum on this planet.
People around me crave for being accepted. Girlfriends incessantly complain about their boyfriends not understanding them and vice versa. Parents lament over the ignorance their children. Children whine about the gap between them and their parents. People spend humungous cash to buy endurance. The reasons for such acts, I don’t reckon.
There’s an old African belief that hovers around the truth of being singularities. I find it deeply humbling. Why ask for plurality when the sole purpose for our creation was to be singular and fulfilling.
The purpose for this entry is to some extent not defined to what I believe. It is not meant to mould you. It is meant to be analysed by you. Critique it. Make your own moulds. It’s just what the existing needs.
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 12:04 PM UTC
A simple melody
circular chord of smiling faces
pass a warm moment to the left
shared silence embraces,
fills a need, and how,
punctuated by cricket calls
and arpeggiated highs
does a collective memory
etch and arch an overhead
spider web, connecting the
singularities, the string pulses
ebbing and humming in tune
with each glowing,
grinning source, and how,
does one sustain that web?
Tug the string along on all your days,
your dragging red wagon
clasped human connection
your cherished, sustained, maintained,
mutual memories.
Mar 1, 2013
Mar 1, 2013 at 10:16 AM UTC
the celestial bodies may crash
and burn the sight from my eyes.
but I see you in my mind:
dancing through the galaxy.
and that gives me the right to eternity.
the black holes may swallow
and leave my chest hollow and dusted.
but I hear you in my head.
your voice carries across the empty nothing
and that gives me the right to eternity.
the universe may protest.
implode on itself.
disintegrate.
but I can feel you, despite it all:
you’re made of thousands of years behind you.
you run on rocket fuel and pure moonlight.
you live among fragments of time past;
stardust, spaceships, and singularities.
you chose me to hold your solar systems and make sure they orbit.
so I’ll ignore the meteor showers and the wormholes
and cherish our interstellar dust.
because I hold the right to eternity
and I am a space to be reckoned with.
Jun 10, 2020
Jun 10, 2020 at 4:42 PM UTC
I have five appendages: head, arms, and legs.
More complex than oneness: what of the
six joints of every leg and arm, or the seven vertebra of the neck?
Thus, looking at the body becomes more and more complex
until I revert back to where my body evolved from a single-
celled organism, which in turn came from water.
Emotions are like appendages, there are also five simple emotions.
Looking at them react together is very complex to follow each motion.
Then, to complete the divine triangle: body, emotion, and, knowledge, which is born of unification.
Virtue are singularities of all three together.
Spirit is service,
compulsion is a virtue of youth and vitality.
It is excess of enjoyment. It knows
less limits and adheres to less stillness.
Insanity is the virtue of enjoyment that is converted
to pain: a pain for others, if not sorrow for me.
Thus, when I am continually the object of my own
insanity, it can be hidden. But when it affects others,
it becomes mental illness.
Sep 9, 2020
Sep 9, 2020 at 1:07 AM UTC
I've shouted questions at the sky-
Hard ones, nearly unanswerable-
hoping against hope that somewhere,
Something might answer.
I've screamed until my throat grew
hoarse from the effort,
and stared up,
waiting-
wishing-
begging
for some kind of answer.
A sign.
Anything.
But there was only silence, ringing
deafeningly over the black expanse.
The stars went on shining as they had before.
It was then I realized.
The Cosmos doesn't care about me.
The Cosmos has cares of its own-
Forging stars and galaxies from dust;
Compressing the very essence of time into
unimaginable singularities;
presiding over the evolutionary cycles of
innumerable lifeforms.
Why would it care about one,
comparatively insignificant life,
on a world teeming with it,
in the outward spiral of a
galaxy very likely filled with other life.
It was then I realized.
Maybe I should look out for myself-
find the answers I seek on my own,
give up/leave behind my fear of the unknown,
instead of expecting the answers to be handed to me.
It shouldn't be that easy.
Jun 13, 2013
Jun 13, 2013 at 1:43 PM UTC
Of Burden
I will not be made to forget that I am a beast—a mythical creature of ash and snow—of sunsets and tree branches—of supernovas and singularities—and my transcendence will be not be held at bay—will not be stifled, even by those forces that permeate worlds—even by those entities whose existence straddles dimensions.
I am that I will never again be naught—that my existence has changed—is changing—the whole of creation.
That those changes cast themselves both backwards and forwards through reality, is the stuff of magic and myth but I assure you represents a truth unhindered by the pettiness of perspective—a truth the size of at least one universe—a contorted, pulsating blob, the width of ten dimensions and length of four temporalities… nourished from its own individuality and infected by notions of shared sovereignty—notions of descendancy or dependency.
The creature of that truth is a mighty beast that we have been beset to watch—to be—the gate—the liminiality—the hearth of our existence and the fortitude of our would-be destruction.
Seize yourself. Walk the stunted and corrupt path through the limen and discover firsthand what the footsteps of divinity could never tell you.
Breathe in eons of creation and destruction and exhale the causality you were born to wield. The strength in which we reside is never above—never beyond—never outside of “I am”.
And it is through this notion and unto the world that I cast together revelation and contingency—sincerity and artifice—bared skin and mask—not to see between the lines of reality, but to witness everything at once—the gestalt—the whole of things—the miracle and awe of a conscious universe in which the proverbial neurons make war with each other—with the axons they slide down—with the very entity whose existence is represented by the house in which they dwell—I wish to see it all—to widen the scope of the collective eye—to manifest the spiritual evolution of the whole ******* world into just
One
Single
Thought.
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 9:03 PM UTC
You're wrong you know.
You're not afraid of crossroads,
Not confrontations,
It's not indecision
Or fear of failure,
You have no issue with regret.
You're wrong,
And being wrong is not the problem,
It's not liberty that afflicts you,
Or binds you,
Roots you to this place.
You're wrong,
And though you're tired
That's not the reason,
You have no real desire to give up.
And society, your friends,
Your loved ones are blameless,
It's not the past that puts the pit
Of doubt cemented in your core.
The future is uncertain
But you know that's not
The burden
That incites rebellion
Throughout your body
Leaves you
Fighting with yourself.
You're all wrong,
Because you understand the solution,
You know the puzzle of the present,
the senselessness,
The answer that they give
Has no function
No relevance
No possibility
No relief.
To live life in the present,
To embrace it,
breathe it in,
To ignore the thoughts that cloud
All action,
To make the most of the moment right at hand--
Is Impossible
For the present is a fiction
They are wrong
It can't be measured
There is only past or future
The now does not exist.
Each “moment” that you visit
Is braided
To past and future,
Demands study and reflection
Impacting everyone and everything.
Every “moment” that you speak of is
Not an individual,
Has no uniqueness,
Scarcity and rarity are imposters--
All is all.
Each person past and future,
Every worm and every atom
Every thought and every planet
Singularities
Intertwined with molecular precision,
And every insignificant
Decision
Is momentous
By design.
The reason,
The answer,
The solution for which you're searching,
The misunderstanding
That's been floating beneath the surface
Of your mind,
The resolution to the question the never ending
And unnerving
The unyielding perplexity
That has you yielding to the ebbing flowing tide
Is that you are not an individual,
You are not uniquely different
You are not a figment
Or a stain or an error
You are not a wink of time.
The reason that the crossroads gives you pause,
Doubt,
Fear, anxiety,
The reason that indecision sometimes
Seems to be the guiding force in every moment
Every magnified, sensationalized
Magic nothing in your life--
Is that you are all,
You are everything,
Now, and then, and when,
You are forever,
You are purpose of all itself,
You are every universe
You are an infinite infinity
Divinity resides in everything you do.
And everyone you see, and interact with,
Everyone you love and hate,
Admire,
Everyone you have forgotten
Everyone you'll never know
Every stone and every sinew
Every straw and every beetle
Every drop of blood that flows from heart to heart
Or spills from any soul,
Every all and every anything is affected by your now.
You are not afraid of insignificance, your instinct
Knows
The truth though you ignore it—
The responsibility you fear is
The magnificence of you.
Aug 23, 2017
Aug 23, 2017 at 1:33 PM UTC
My body houses two selves.
Former fulfilling my heart's desire,
Later obeying what my mind dictates.
For you I'll light my brain on fire.
Apr 30, 2019
Apr 30, 2019 at 1:52 PM UTC
on the cross town bus
met a holy man laughing
singularities
Jun 20, 2016
Jun 20, 2016 at 10:15 PM UTC
A single
t
e
a
r
fell beneath my features and shattered
my e
m
o
t
I
o
n
s
on the floor, remnants of what a mind
could not hope to contain. Now expelled
in transparent singularities that coalesce
and fall like heavy dew.
Shattering on the emotionless floor below.
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 11:29 AM UTC
Orchids grow from
black holes without light
Crushed down into singularities
from the pressure of being the only stars that were never loved
Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 1:28 AM UTC