Black

This is it, the visceral A mud laden intention for the perfect And the prefect knows we don’t deserve it but in morning yawning I’m yearning To sheen without the glisten To be of worth without the wealth To matter in spite of mass Come sing in the keys of dandelions and roar like the hidden root I prefer to blacken my estate than to yellow at the petals, fixing myself for your taste Somewhere in the dirt Some hand clenching at the shine of the only future it deserves is cut off Someone picking up my charms Somewhere, far away So far that in knowing these truths, it doesn’t matter It has no mass These are not atoms This is only shape