In anticipation of the spectacle to come this evening, this poem of mine, from the same time last year, has been at the top of my mind. ~

The fawning of a million stars
Won’t sate the black-holed soul;
The unfilled need for self-esteem
Devours its diamonds whole.

The brightest suns are fed feet first,
Into the maw they go,
While vacuum’s vice slow-squeezes life
From those prostrating low.

The fearful ones come proffering praise,
So desperate for reprieve,
Some dragging offerings to the mouth,
While swearing they believe.

But in they go by ones or tens,
Sucked in without a kiss,
Around the tongue and swallowed down,
Into the void’s abyss.

~ Quent Cordair

“The Black-Holed Soul,” 3/2/2025