as suicidal roses one night
my thirsty veines crying for lust
and so
the light thinner and thinner falling on the floor
swallowed by your skin and more

I then woke up no English nor me
reality hanging on my neck
flower chain from Hawaii
what a waste
is it just me poissoned of poetry
is it just me

Is it just me alive
and Whitman's bones are dry
no dog to crave for
or is it just an English fall
no glory in it
no methaphor
just be it
so
be it