People Of Pretense
I’ve never been
where they tread,
chasing mirage
through desert storm.
I look at evasive eyes
perennially petrified,
see their void vision
fixed fast on
fantasy,
shroud of devious dust
spreads on
sneaky people.
Gleam of opalescent oasis
out of sight,
they wane in wasteland
like shriveled shadows
of skeletal trees,
forgotten
they were once green,
but I know
they’ve lost
their roots,
turned into
wooden people.
Layer on layer
the dubious design of
deception
morphs into motif
of masquerade mask,
the chameleon skin
fashions the faces
with smoke-screen,
I can’t see through.
People of pretense
create cloaks of
charade
the rays of reality
thwarted,
so they make
obscure onyx world
their own,
don’t discern
they turn into
ambiguous antiques,
but I know
for I walk
in the museum of
masked people.
They build bastion
in enveloping emptiness
of abysmal abyss
of vagabond valleys,
no window opens
on the sapphire sky
secluded,
sunburst sequined sense
eradicated
doesn’t illumine
their insipid isolation,
their marooned minds
remain fossilized
in dark dereliction,
become slate slices
of starless night,
don’t know why
all the dreams
disappear,
but I know
no rainbow ribbon wraps
their remote heart,
for they’ve become
opaque people.
Copyright ©
Subimal Sinha-Roy
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