My protagonist weeps silently
wiping away the white color of its mimed make up.
It weeps sitting under the ash covered floor of coffee house
or near the gutter of Marquis Street
some where near the warm sunshine of the childhood-ed Beadon Street.
It weeps to know the answers of questions.
some questions that wrack it’s heart, dissolves it’s existence, shoves it to a no man’s land.
It weeps to know the answers of questions,
the answers provides it’s roots.
Why Allison irons and Jimmy plays trumpet?
Why Gogh and Kahlo drew themselves often?
Morrison lied on the stage?
A much loved poet has stopped writing?
and Art is for proving ‘Something’?
My protagonist beats on the table,
strips near the corner of the street
rises its middle finger,
and decodes the truth.
”Zombies you are.
dead and all dead.
Unaware of the superfluity of the winter air
or of a fading dusk
or of the green socks on the opposite balcony.
dead and all dead.”
My protagonist weeps
wipes away the mime make up and makes up a mask.
masking up the soul and masking up a smile.
Whispering ”dead and all dead”
My protagonist ”struts and frets” its hour upon the stage and is ”heard no more”
My protagonist is a coward
shy and desolate.
my protagonist is a hypocrite
that rebukes rape
and harasses working women in a late night metro.
My protagonist is a chauvinist, a filthy patriarch.
My protagonist is not a mirage.
it is an obnoxious reality.