Poetry 8


By August


Shiny, flat legato of skin

Slippery tones of black

Creeping off my back

The black notes they theive

I grow again


Prickly, sinful staccato

Flecks of tiny, minor green

Patches stripping me of sheen

The green scales are harvested

I grow again


Curling chords of color

Waves of tonic, peaceful red

Smears of THEIR skin instead

I line the halls

With dead men