"welcome one,welcome all",proudly he announces,
and then a controller,the show he commences.
he pulls at strings,all vulnerable at his fingertips,
all mascots of wood,their fate,their story,firmly he grips.
innumerable smiles he spreads,on faces of people young and old,
he with his skillful hands,paints stories beautiful-brittle and bold.
a new stage he creates,a new tale he unfolds,
the power to add a plot twist or happy ending he holds.
a murderer,a thief,salvation,the creator-all he is,
of this little world of his own,behind curtains held by stilts,
penny by penny,in his little haven he counts,
hoping with every breath,that enough to get him two meals it amounts.
his cheek muscles tighten,as he puts on a smile,
masked behind it is sorrow,hope that he will find the finish line.
the applause isn't music,but traumatizing noise to his ears,
noise that defines his insecurities and his worst fears.
fear of being left to die on the cold streets,with a bowl in his hand,
that the viewers of his show,minimal in numbers-in such a situation he lands.
he fights life,every time it challenges him,he says-"try me!"
however,a part of him regrets his illiteracy and forces him to ask God-"why me?"
the world he creates,is his only escape,his only ally in this war against fate,
his only monetary supply,that ensures that at meals he doesn't sit with an empty plate.
every day he pulls at those strings,he becomes the controller,
while everyone is unaware of his own life scattered all over.
the public image,of him-a puppeteer,
one who can decide the direction in which,the ship of his show he wants to steer,
it looks so organized,settled,consolidated,so truly magnificent and manipulating,
but the truth is-every second for a life that doesn't force him to do this,he is praying.
praying that the scattered pieces,crashed into by the bulldozer of ruined opportunities,
or unlucky landings in discriminatory and ignorant communities,
or his clash with cruel society and even crueller life,
one he shattered himself into fragments with bad decisions' knife.
the melodious voice of his narration,the agility of his fingers,
the smile plastered on his face,the mono-act of kings and ministers,
they are all forced,put up by no free will,
the originality,to express who he really is,it kills.
and behind every smile of a showman there is an untold story,
of rapid fall or of rising glory,
in this little world of fabric, sticks,dolls and magical tales as every string he picks,
he tries to hold his life together storing all his sorrow behind his puppets.
YOU ARE READING
Inking vacuum
Poetry******* Is it dark or am I blind? Is it hollow or am I outside? Is the world deaf or am I the deaf one unable to hear the world responding back? ****** Previously known as "kaleidoscopic ink" ******* this book is a collection of poems(short and long...
