You Don’t Know Jack

He’s a bit singed around the edges

Eyes like burnt Tennessee whiskey too

His cloak of black

Matches his soul

He’s destructive, destruction, deconstruction

You know the deal

He might have been the devil himself

Yet all I could see

Then

Was how well his scarlet skin

Contrasted with his fine black cape.

©️2023 itsamyisaid.com, All Rights Reserved.