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Waste

Waste at the door
Drunk of apple core,
spiting seeds of the last tree.
The hands hold the head,
resting like mat at the front steps.
The neighbours are awake
not eyes not faces
voices lost place
the body held tight.
Surrounded by walls,

like a fox in the box
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COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Gajanan Mishra 17 February 2013

alcohol wounds. I like it. thanks.

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Hardik Vaidya 17 February 2013

Luca Menin, superb creation, I loved every single alphabet of it, from waste you created a never dying phase, the phase of curiosity.

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