© Written by Emmelia M.
They are talking about black, in my never-ending nights, obsolete to the colorless corpse, once they have never been there, since existence endures, nights are foretold not to pretend. They are flattering the insidious black, even all pirates are standing with their clean hands, uttermost seen are propaganda, the black holds my nights densely, my room is hooked with his constant mortuary, I confess in nothingness, the evil stranded. The black owns his immortal missionary, crews of testimonial voyage, having no particular visages, no entirety, he holds my destined forlorn, discreet admirations, no discrepancies among long conversations, I only grant him the colors of my heart, the heart he always seeks to, the colors of his lighthouse. Candid smiles he saves implicitly, for tomorrow we share and hold, never promising any disclosed impurities, the black in both are inseparable, any gifted talents are miracles.