By Mihir Sharma
Like an actor so consumed;
I forget you are there.
As a playwright, I forget
This is not my play.
Like the water forgets;
It makes others wet.
As a fish I wonder;
Is the water wet?
Is it the sword I hold?
It's the bloodlust I'm latched onto.
The man killed cold;
Don't know he's dead.
The intent I made;
Then, why did I change it at all?
It was the choice I made;
Then, why did I fake it at all?
Is it the blind eye of fate?
That brings our end.
Or the all-seeing eye of destiny?
Which planned it all.
This mirror reflecting;
Our own true nature, so blind we are, unlike the painter.