Under a canopy of oak drenched

�������������������� Sunset

� In a sea of moss

�� Capsizing lighthouses in my ears

Cold air prickling my skin

���������� Like thorns of the dead roses

���� On my windowsill

���������� In the shadow of Diego

And dreams of Mexican nights

��������� Trotsky and salsa

Searching for Warhol,

��������� The bannana, the velvet underground,

������ Maralyn Monroe

I reach for it

����������������� And it rolls towards

����������� Electric moss

� And over there is a heartwrenchingly

���������������� Perfect flower �

��������� Whose home I forget �

������������������� ����Fallen

��������� And it makes me think that

�������������������� There must be something after

��� We all fall off our trees

���������� Maybe death is the catalyst of beauty

������ The firestarter of vibrancy�

If only I knew its language�