The Black Hole was never born in space,
Among the stars or down below.
Nor on a craggy mountain edge,
Though pounded by an ice-cold wind.

Lonely like the sun-bleached bones
On a sandy plain that’s long forgot.
Hurting like the splitting rocks,
That shriek out-loud as they turn to sand.

The Black Hole lies beneath my chest,
Within my ribs that ache and groan.
It takes a quiet, gentle breath and
Without a word, it swallows me, whole.

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