Flesh of black and skin of blue,
pictures of a color.
Like a soup that is a stew,
so different from the other.
Thoughts to think on brink of kills,
a ride between the skates.
The capture of a flesh in chills,
planned for future dates.
So many left to sanctify,
so little left of time.
There is no way to satisfy,
the wicked of my mind.
Strong in strength and bound in chain,
the furtherness is gone.
Just when you think that you are safe,
you've found that you thought wrong.
Flesh of black and skin of blue.
a pictures all that left of you.
saint cynosure ( Ken Bennight )
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/flesh-of-black/
