by Ryan Walraven
A black hole trails behind me,
a dormant shadow from my past.
It smells of dust and empty spaces
and sounds like post movie silence.
In its wake, all ruins are devoured,
the mess of my bedroom floor turned to carpet,
old books and papers gone dry.
Photos and posters turn blank,
like the last page of a book
which no one will ever read.
Its radiation pierces flesh,
seals old wounds with ultraviolet precision.
The event horizon swells around me,
a black envelope of air-conditioned space
where deep within some hint of memory still resides
never to be seen again.
© Ryan Walraven 2015