Should you ever decide to visit a black hole,

fall perhaps, on your way in space

brace yourself, there could be sound

found there,

beware, oh!

No, not that you’d hear the song,

long as you might want to, but in space

bass notes aren’t heard at will

still, the black holes sing.

Those who study such things

(strings and theories and time)

minds more clever than my own,

tone academic, say space-time curves,

swerves, in a gravitational singularity.

But–

but should you survive,

alive, say after your starship takes a wrong turn,

learn this now,

somehow, look for the back door

for at its center

enter, and this leads to a wormhole.

There you’ll get “spaghettified”

Up-and-downsified, stretched, enlarged,

charged, or changed

rearranged, like Alice after she ate the cake,

mistake, or like the largest piece of pasta ever,

never say never, (I won’t judge) and then pushed whoop-de-doo

through the wormhole, You,

to another part of the universe.

I’d say, the sharpest trick ever,

whenever, yet not for me.

See, I prefer spaghetti to eat,

feet on ground, plate on table

stable, and able from there I

sigh, and gaze up high.

This is in response to Secret Keeper’s Writing Prompt

Using these words: Sound/Sharp/Clever/Judge/Still

I wrote an echo poem.

Here’s some information on “spaghettification”

And on the songs of black holes