Tom Wood

#5

Breathe into me your love of color

Foolish trap, now on black hands and knees

An atonement that is not much smaller-

than the lies whispered in the chilling breeze

 

Uttering words that the sprites reciprocate

Foolish beasts, now circle me with white dark

Shedding my color, drop by dop; au fait-

with the predisposed and present patriarch

 

I\'ve prayed and converted to this scale

Foolish me, a pleasure to them, I\'m sure

Fill my lungs with vantablack ink, exhale-

white; metal flavor, you twisted epicure

 

Breathing sounds a sense of relief in my lungs

Foolish monk, I alone have the gift of tongues