Salsa

Let us get lit

To all of it.

Fire in my belly consumed from the south

with hues of green meant for the mouth.

Yellow strands colored sand slowly cascade unto the mound,

of broken meat not horse nor sheep whose life cannot be found.

Obelisk of flora, crushed to a powder,

Rises again as a new flour.

Now all I require is the red, to rouse my countennace from a stupour,

But it seems there will be no salsa for my supper.