Is it ironic?

That they birthed the blackest black

In a room full of white light

Made me wonder

What does black look like in a womb?

Waiting to be born, waiting to absorb all the light

They gave it a name

Vantablack rose up through the metallic flames

Anduril in one hand the Antichrist in another

The sculptors and the painters fought for the science

One won his vain war, the other asked:

“How do we SEE the absence of light?”

The poet, she smiled.

For the world has now seen and baptized

The blackest black of her mind!

Single. Spaced. Blank.

Thoughts are gone

In a mist

Like cold anger

Lost in a fist

Words mean nothing

They are sickness

Like empty air

Inside my breast

Existence is stuck

A bleak blip

Like meaningless moans

Inside sealed lips

Life stands still

Time’s broken and

My mind’s page is a

single spaced blank.