A field of flowers lies just beyond. Marching through the thick brush Of black and thorny weeds, My radiance sapped with each step, Each encounter harder than the last. Yet I still push on. I look back, and the weeds are still black.

When a sun grazes a black hole, Its escape is all but imaginary. For Goliath is no giant; he is the universe. And I am small.

The flowers look farther than yesterday. I’m dimmer than before, And my feet drag on the impossible horizon. Was I a good enough sun? I don’t answer; Instead, I fall to the dirt. My feet become roots, And I embed myself in the field. A new life, one with the weeds. My light is drained; a black hole is dark indeed.