Tempera

Tempera,
  you give me false colors

Squeezing the bird, poor soul from
 my roots
Your rose scratches this bark

Tempera,
Round thorns, you white sheep; white as sleet,
  I see you plain as day
Why do you claim red pigment
                yet you bleed gray?

   Ha. I see
            my wood before the knife

I see the cut before its slit.



Though,

I want to see how many lies you can come up with.