by P. M. Maisano
I think that dark matter just might be dead souls.
Bodies play host to them until flesh is expired.
No longer held by gravity like light in black holes,
souls released with a bang, cosmically retired.
Bodies play host to them until flesh is expired,
along with fear and shame and secrets and loathing;
souls released with a bang, cosmically retired.
Expansion of darkness, and nothing, and more nothing.
Along with fear and shame and secrets and loathing,
my own Big Book so grand and apocryphal.
Expansion of darkness, and nothing, and more nothing.
What if I believe in this just because it’s beautiful?
My own Big Book so grand and apocryphal:
A man’s bedtime origin story that won’t breathe the day.
What if I believe in this just because it’s beautiful?
A ripple in time makes me go on this way.
A man’s bedtime origin story that won’t breathe the day,
no longer held by gravity like light in black holes.
A ripple in time makes me go on this way:
I think that dark matter might just be dead souls.