It's the hunger game, possession born in 

grace, who looks for? Thin roots in the shrouded

secret spring, has sprung out the mass production

of shapes and beats, there's no moral of repeat

butterflies cast over the dark pallets, it's 

never stirring, never flutters, in the old room

all are same, nothing but a shared seed—

that grows over a hornless flesh again, 

losers in a lost trap game, what's their language?

foreign syllables, rolling in the tongue—

but you can only hear the roar in ears, a death

tribe: over merciless language, it's the beauty

standing before, anonymous faces flash

together, crushing, smashing, squeaking

sounds reverberate in groans, whoop!

whoop! whoop! The house isn't made of

horror ducks, yet the yellow black skin 

growls back, it's only growing in numbers—

so many yellow mask in the faces unknown

death tribe in the incoherent words, what—

what you can't hear, their merciless screams

in the synthetic stone, a long queue in the

corridor, move! Get back into the room!

Lights go off! The mirror shows the truth—

You're stuck again in the same loop,

with yellow black skin. 

— 9th April, 2024.