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.