‎I am a cell submerged wholly in the bellies of a dusty black hole, not a wormhole. This hole I say, isn’t those catacombs you find in the eye of God nor the honeycomb you find in his nostrils. It is not even the tiny cathedrals bored in his ectoderm. When I say hole, I mean those vampires fleshing on my celestial cerebrum, dissecting my dreams like how God dissected the universe into multiversity of alternate realities.
‎
‎In this black hole, a grasshopper chews the Sun to excrete the Moon and the Moon in turn feeds on tiny fireflies before she can cast any shadowy dilemma at dusk.
‎
‎Now my body seeks refuge on the beads of time. I recited every litany I memorized on a vacation nature gifted me, where he thought me hurled languages only spoken by the Saints in Hades. Just like raindrops, those prayers vaporise even before their bodies united with the dusts of Adam while gravity was seen in rage swallowing and digesting them in an angle that got its projection from the Ninth circle of Hell. This gravity doesn’t give a rip about the laws of physics, due to the fact that its body caves a universe buried in an oven where time is seen worshiping the moon, because She once enveloped the Sun with treacheries stolen from the jewelleries of Medusa. She kissed him with a venomous smile, and bade him goodbye while his body soon petrified and evolved into frozen flames.
‎

 

 

 

 

Photo by Greg Rakozy on Unsplash