The red is the love of the poor,
And the hatred of the rich.
The crunches are the voices of the
uneducated and the unashamed.
The smacking of lips is the joy of
being selfish enough to love oneself.
The severe smell cuts through
The false odors awakening the senses.
The powder slowly forges a wall of defiance
that stains the hand even after dying.
You always leave me gasping.
