By Medha Bakshi
As wondrous as it is,
I can carry it out the real way;
As unreal as it is,
I can carry my pretence all day;
While my aspirations to fly free; from it
are chopped off obnoxiously by an obscure,
I submit to the perpetual episodes of the, diminishing state of authenticity of my soul;
For I am the carrier of those,
heavy coffins of the many me, the real me ,who ceased to existence ;
Upon their rebellion to withdrawal from;
the charade at their own wills,
With my continued dis relish,to be living in;
a simulation of stagecraft, without ,the;
Cuts and actions and actors
I try to gage with the incalculable,
And non comprehensive, Seals of beam , that decorate my lips and eyes and cheeks
with glee, sparkle and flush up to extremes
That actuate my portrayal of the masked me;
For every sound that I burst into my laughter with, happily giggling out in the play,
My soul is shaken by a thud of those,
Silent weepings,that pierce through
my ever torn heart;
constantly lacerating it’s chambers, for, every cry is left unheard,
As, my sorrowing is unmatched to the,
Scripting of the obscurer’s stagecraft,
Where I am tied down by the intangible strings of it, for impersonating a Marionette, who tunes in perfectly without any emotional spine, to comprehend the
scenario it is subjected to , except for
My heart , still beats in agony, as it has
Fallen short at heat to burn out the charade
into ashes,for I am a part of its existence;
As I rush to hide from the stagecraft,
I shelter in a corner of four walls,
Where I resort to a state of solitude, with
my role ceasing for fleeting moments;
Providing here the tranquility, Of,a
fugitive fulfilment era ,replicating as,
rewards of my ,unabating labour with ,
the eternal Realm of illusory; where,
I can unmask the real me, for I can now,
breath from my soul;
As I settle in the existence Of My,
short lived solitudes, my soul crumbles away; and now here,
The seals of beam melt away,
Turning the lips upside down;
With my eyes now being bloodshot swollen pouches, pouring out in vexation;
My grief and sorrow, roll down in ripples,
Through the passage of those shrunken cheeks ;
Striking out the glee now, as deeply,
crackled impressions of the tears contour, the unmasked and unscripted face;
Face which I , hold firmly, with my fingers, that crawl inwards, begging for mercy to be, poured In the hollow depression created, beneath, with my helpless hands,
Trembling in angst, stuck in the rut;
As the prayers for my tranquility,
To swap sides with my,
Perpetual episodes of misery,
Continue even after being shunned by,
The eternal possessor of it,
I am daunted by the fear of it’s ,
my solitude’s, conclusion , growing all restless and anxious , and this is where;
“Knock knock” on the door!
I sense the disappearance of my tranquility,
For my solitude has gone fleetingly;
With my solitude being politely invaded,
The seals of beam start to reappear;
With every creak of the wooden door,
Opens the portal to my misery, and here,
The crackled contours of my ripples,
Now start to heal, as, here comes a,
new layer of mask to surface,
With glee and sparkle and flush up to extremes;
I have now reached towards the,
end of my solitude, standing at the,
threshold of my Tranquility and Misery;
Where I am to separate from the former,
As, that being unmatched to the scripting of, the obscure’s stagecraft,where I participate,
Again, forcefully in the unscrupulous play;
Once again, the motion of my perpetual,
Monotony of episodes, is rolled in,
The reel of this play, where my,
Intangible strings, of misery, uphold,
The marionette of me, the unreal me,
With my charade, or the charade thrown,
Upon me, against me;
Oh! what it feels like, to carry the pretence
Into becoming a master thespian;
Even when, I’m all coerced into it by,
The eternal realm of illusory,
For it is my truth, when I say;
As wondrous as it is,
I can carry it out the real way;
As unreal as it is,
I can carry my pretence all day.