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.