Stars scream in x-ray cries, as black holes rip out their heart and they die. Spinning flattened around a hole, their remains cry in d sharp. Oh, how lovely looks that harp, strung in a circle around a dark black hole. Why would worlds end in such an awful manner, but from a distance with such beauty? Oh, I wander the light mystic, and see things no human can ever know. I am a sprite of the imagination. I am a drop of Universe, I am a pilgrim soul.
Christopher H. Holte
More poetry at: http://fraughtwithperil.com/cholte/