Don't Look Twice

A short warning poem that frames danger as speed, control loss, and the splitting of light into harsher knowledge.

The compression makes it feel like a flash of cosmic panic.

Four short couplet-like lines of accelerating catastrophe: 'Your spaceship goes out of control // And your heading for that hole // The light goes through the prism // And seperates the spectrum'. A loss of control resolves not into impact but into the splitting of white light into its colors.

The title's command not to look twice suits a poem that gives you a single rushing glance and no second chance to steady the image. Its two-beat couplets and end-rhymes ('control' / 'hole') drive a sense of velocity, and the 'hole' carries a double charge - a literal void and a black hole's gravitational pull. The turn at the prism is the real surprise: rather than ending in destruction, the poem ends in analysis, the spectrum 'seperate[d]' into its bands, as if the moment of going out of control is also the moment perception fractures into its components. Brief and visual, it reads like a flash of optical and cosmic anxiety. Preserve the source spellings 'your' (for 'you're') and 'seperates'.