Event horizon. The faintest stroke of the rosey dawn.
The end of time or so it sounds.
Clawing, scratching and crying to abound.
Here it comes the future drawn.
As my past self gives its final yawn, please, no funeral mound.
Let the belly of the wolf be my final ground.

Poetry Time 107: Posthuman
Andreas_Helixfinger at 12:00AM, Feb. 2, 2025
1 like!


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Andreas_Helixfinger at 2:50AM, Feb. 3, 2025
@PaulEberhardt - Sometimes it just clicks I guess^^
PaulEberhardt at 1:21AM, Feb. 2, 2025
Gotta like this one. Some intricate play with motifs here that gently nudges you towards the image you create instead of pushing it on your readers. It's kind of like one of those paintings that you need to step back and look at for a while to get them.