black holes
pulled me in,
and all the colours
with me.
and i feel stuck.
spaghettification
they call it;
neither here nor there.
moving toward that event horizon
but
perpetually
stuck in time,
paradoxically
not moving
anywhere.
there's no blame.
we're all
just wanderers
forging our
way through,
finding our orbit,
but things
shift,
and a few billion
years
can press down
on a few decades
and shift everything
in a few
seconds.
YOU ARE READING
Melancholia
Poetrypoetry takes us to so many places, and we take poetry to so many places. here are poems about places, and sometimes the people found in them.
