Death

 

Death
Is a black hole
(Though not as black as it seems)
Stretches us
Transports us
To an intergalactic gap
Or a violet-green nebula
To an alien air
A lifespan in light years away from here
And when our tenures expire
It takes us back here
Our other home
And we repeat
The circle of life
In a straight line
The bedlam of everything
All at once
That ever
Hasbeen willbe is
Collectively condensed
Into the broken-record
Migraine of now
And us, eternally

Death
Is an illusion
Is the memory-wiping
Painkiller for the
Exciting ennui
Of life
Of us
Of this
Of all

 

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