Kiwifruits march in formation

with camouflage of loss and anger,

with iron of target and eager.

Jungle is frigidly waiting while

silence is the only setting.


Nerves turn every caresses of 

tender leaves to Hulk’s punches.

The body gets hungry when dipping 

in swamp dressing, for crispy caesar,

but no one is victor.


Which one is louder, fierce volley or 

the final twenty-one salute?

You kept running, but there were no EXIT.

The last thing you see is moss on your

headstone, standing at the lonely green.  

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the Breakfast Club

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