You are my red flag.
The soviet flag that I will proudly wave on American soil.

In the middle of the cold war.
While angry mobs regurgitate propaganda.
Trying to convince me of all the harsh things they say about you is true.
I will not fall for the red scare.

You are my red flag.
That I will wave.
Even after the U.S.S.R has collapsed.

Divine respiration.
Life giving exhalation.
A substance poured into my lungs.

Your breath enters.
Saturating my being.
Sobriety leaves me.
Hallucinations embrace me.

Twisting in sheets like a mad man.
Unable to contain myself.
Grandeur gazes down.
I am deranged.

Death approaches.
Feminine lips; radiating embers.
Leaving ashes in its wake.
By this, I am singed.
As Gehenna whispers my name.

The flag is not my home.
No paint can hold my heart.
A red sun or a hammer and sickle;
that is my home?
My home lies somewhere between the lines of the flag on a mountain plain they claim as their own.
Among the green patches and the blue.
I search for this land called home and I hope to see it too.