Work Text:
Poetry is incredibly dense,
and yet of a rather small volume.
Such is necessary, because
if you gather too much of it
into one place, it will reach
the Schwarzschild radius of the
element poetrium. Too many poets
have become trapped in their
own black holes from which
their own light does not emit
as such - words accrete around
them, an unbound maelstrom
careening to oblivion. Or at least,
an incomprehensible physical state.
All slowly evaporate, due to Hawking
radiation. A poem here, a poem there,
over an entire life. Yet some
have quasars, blasting immense
energy across the whole universe;
not quite consuming the words,
but smashing them together so hard
that they must reach out.
Before it dies for good, the universe
will be dominated by black holes.
Let's hope that humanity is
a microcosm of the universe.