If Black is not a Colour

If Black is not a Colour

If black is not a colour why (in the way you wear it)
Does it fill me with so much light that I feel compelled to share it
With dull undeserving strangers, now seeming so fascinating,
So angelic, these placid folks now, such colour they’re creating!

If black is not a colour, how then to explain
The sense of this garden blooming, becoming in my brain?
Bordered by the diamond terminus of your black silk-stockinged legs,
All the stunning fruits and flowers, warmed by your black-clad cunt for which I beg.

If black is not a colour, why so much mad colour I see
In the delicate unzipping of your dress, fingers like a spider over my knee.
Of and in itself, and with your whole self, and the entirety of life itself?
And your black-mascaraed lashes languidly blink twice, and you open yourself.

And colours course through our movement, our bodies electric,
And colours arc between my cock and your lips (which soon I will lick).
If black is not a colour, then you have pulled some wicked trick
To give black such power to give such power to our beautiful bodies electric.