Black Holes Are Stars of Collapsed Flame

Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem

Those tiny things expected haven’t come.

This stretches out elastic heart and mind

As if Creator God has shunted from

Desired locations or has turned a blind

Apostle loose upon your innards.  Your

Hallmarkish hopes have been denied and so

You grope about and now you must endure

As if your soul has fever dreamed a glow.

An emptiness is what your marrow feels.

The gods have flopped away to yesteryear

Where they belong.  Uncertainty now seals

Your boredom or your panic, heartless fear.

  A desperation far too numb inspires

    Tomorrows in your cosmos lacking fires.

©  Phillip Whidden