By Tamanna Bangthai
You are dust, settling pitifully on the floor.
The cracks in your soul are showing
despite your golden teeth.
You're losing sight, a cataract of madness
mutilating your visual field.
The words you speak are just noise.
Where is the substance? Where is the depth?
Where is your humanity?
Soon you'll run out of cards,
your hands will be emptier than a marasmic belly.
The mirror will show a monster perched
on your shoulders.
Because you have been masquerading as someone you could never be.
Like a pathetic preacher making a fool of the gods.
The ground beneath your feet is shaking.
You don't have a home. Your children are dead.
The cuckoo has snatched your eggs.
It's a different story. One you sidelined everyday
while overwriting others’ identities.
The sand is forming crevices around your feet.
Soon you will vanish.
The sand dunes will mock your incapable footings.
But you aren't alone. There are so many of you.
Influential. Inglorious. Insular. Incapable.