Three Sides To Every Story

As you chase the melting mirage in the desert storm I look at your evasive eyes permanently petrified, see the void vision fixed in the personal frame. As the shroud of devious dust spreads on sneaky you, you wane in the waste land, like the shrivelled shadow of the skeletal tree, green once, but I know, you've lost your roots, turned into a stubborn wooden entity. Layer on layer the dubious design of deception morphs into motif of masquerade mask, the chameleon skin fashions your face with the smoke screen, I can't see through. The epitome of pretense creates the cloak of charade, thwarts the rays of reality, so, you make obscure onyx world of your own, don't discern you turn into an ambiguous antique, but I know, for I walk in the museum of masked people. You build the bastion of enveloping emptiness of abysmal abyss of your vagabond valley, no window opens on the secluded sapphire sky. The eradicated sunburst sequined sense doesn't illumine your insipid isolation. Your fixated mind remains fossilized in dark dereliction, becomes slate slice of starless night. You don't know why all the dreams disappear, but I know, no rainbow ribbon wraps your remote opaque heart, for an obstinate object you become. The ubiquitous vivacity ingrained in every story gets the dormant light of the absolute truth, yet each one is a tree on the thicket of diversity, each one is a flower in the garden of plurality.