The Black Hole Behind Me

by Ryan Walraven

A black hole trails behind me,

a dormant shadow from my past.

It smells of dust and empty spaces

and sounds like post movie silence. 

In its wake, all ruins are devoured,

the mess of my bedroom floor turned to carpet,

old books and papers gone dry.

Photos and posters turn blank,

like the last page of a book

which no one will ever read.

Its radiation pierces flesh,

seals old wounds with ultraviolet precision.

The event horizon swells around me,

a black envelope of air-conditioned space

where deep within some hint of memory still resides

never to be seen again.

© Ryan Walraven 2015


by Ryan Walraven

The wind flows, thick with wood smoke

and leaf-snagged chatter from far away roads.

I sink my hands into the mud and dredge

the fallen patterns of the sun.

In swaths of star-shaped leaves, I see math’s of

empty measure; by dockside, waves gathering.

The wind urges them on, and I listen for the crash.

Air, mud, trees, seas. The signs

blend like streams of incense, or the browns

and creams upon a cup of tea.

© Ryan Walraven 2015