Opaque People
I’ve never been where they’ve been,
chasing the mirage in the desert storm.
I look into their entranced eyes,
see their vision transfixed on illusion,
the shroud of ruse spreads on the sneaky people.
The gleam of oasis out of their sight,
they lie on wasteland like dry shadow of trees
that have forgotten they were once green,
but I know they’ve lost their roots,
desiccated they've turned into wooden people.
Layer on layer of designed deception
morphs into misleading molds of crafted mask,
changing into chameleon skin on their faces.
Behind the smoke-screen I can’t see through
the veil created by the insecure people,
The light of reality doesn’t penetrate,
so they make their own darkened world,
don’t perceive when they turn into antiques,
but I know because for a long time now
I've walked in the museum of the masked people.
They build castles in the air within deep valleys,
no window of their mind opens on sparkling sky.
The sun rays don’t light up their bleak isolation,
their desolate souls remain obscure in the dark,
for the spent sun starts to set for the dismal people.
For them the harvest moon doesn’t ever rise,
they become gloomy splinters of the starless night,
not knowing why their dreams break in dark abyss,
but I know why no rainbow enters their heart,
for they’ve turned into opaque people.
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