a red dried pepper
and a  wormy cherry
a decomposed dead body
looks just like them-but not you

I am gazing at your
diamond eyes and fire hands
behind a glass
the glass will turn to marble
and you will turn to ashes
and the grief will softly whisper me
the charms of lunacy

finally, the flames will die
and I will sell the two diamonds in my hands
for wisdom

no, dad, it's not you
whose skin is cracked, decayed and bruised
it could be a box of cherries
or a bag of peppers

god, I miss you.

the wind is spiraling
the wind is spiraling

it is the rage
which has no object
the indignation
which cannot spread
is spiraling

the tempest is
scattering
the hell is
sparkling
under my skin

I am waiting for the thunder
I am waiting
to become the spiral
to shiver
and to sparkle

but the spiral is
withering within
and all my devils are
hymning to the wind

when will I learn
the hell
is me
and the devils
are mine

my dad died so gracious
he is dead
indeed

but I am not sure
if he was the one in that coffin
or it was his blood
that I saw on his silver bracelet
rust? it might be

without pain and without scars
and with a faceless shroud
he was elegant
indeed
but-dead?

so how come
a silver bracelet rust

and who was the one
in that coffin?

saying that 'you can tell me'
doesn't mean that I will

saying that 'you're not alone'
does not guarantee that I won't
feel alone
again

I am
alone
I am
solemnly
on my own

I want to fear nothing
I want to expect nothing

but here I am again,
old friend

will you hold my hand
again?

every glance between us
is like sharing a secret together
bonding  and completing
like committing
a crime