Cloaked in our bitter mirth
I raise a toast to my defence-
Books my shield, poetry my armour.
You laugh at my absurdity,
My tragic state or rather,
My tragic attempt at tragedy itself
You mock me contemptuously,
“What a waste!” you say.
I know and you know.
But what you don’t know
Is you mock yourself when you mock me.
You think me vile, heartless and cruel
And sometimes as an innocuous dreamer.
Heck! Isn’t your ambition like any others?
The quest for power-
To wield the despot’s scepter and the crown,
To trigger revolutions and civil wars,
To fiddle with guns and cold metallic machines.
What if the bullets turn against you?
Would you mind? Would you even be surprised?
Do you care what the world says?
Has it ever mattered where we stand?
The sullen glances,
Why can’t we ever say?
Is it self- evident; an axiom?
Have you ever asked what you really are?
Does the bottle tempt you?
Is there an underlying current to the toast?
Like to prose to poetry,
We differ in our ingenuity
But we love busting bubbles,
Mocking, deriding and desecrating ourselves.
Is it as quest to kill you or to kill myself?
I have tried to efface you
I swear I have tried
But the reflections demand a greater price
For I fear you are but a play of my mind.