Black Poem by Roy Ballard

Blacks beyond black there are and more beyond,
blacks blacker than a lake of bitumen,
wide firmaments of tar and pitch, despond,
asphalt infinities that swallow men.
Infinity is like the widow's cruse:
however much is given there is more,
however much is lost there's more to lose
with never any draining of the store.
Upon the deep, nigrescent, sly, untold
and viscous lake where even angels sink,
a slick of colours and a glint of gold,
a tint of purple, rainbows black as ink,
a shining, superficial, luring trick
puts bait upon the trap to which I stick.