In the hour of confessions and the moments of defeat
I find myself the same man, a liar made of concrete
Feigning disappointment while already on the lookout for a way out
Already on the plan B while creating the illusion of doubt
Knowing where not to go, knowing where not to be
Knowing who not to talk to, knowing what not to see
My feelings of bitterness are not a thing apart
They stem from you and within, they were in you from the start
I am the mirror you hold, I am the demons you see
For I was always a thing apart from you, a flower in concrete
Now run off to find new fields to pollute
For in your bitterness you are true to you
And in my love and happiness, I am true to me.
Away from you, for this is not for your eyes to see.
Come. Come where the flowers still bloom.
Away from the voices in your head. Away from the gloom.
The cradle shock and aftermath of failure is growth;
The days you cannot state are a lesson of hope.
Come. Come let me take you to the start.
The beginning of questions; the turmoils of your heart.
Freud. Kafka. Aurelius & Nietczhe;
Socrates. Plato. Nehru & King.
We are all in the same ring;
gloves off and fighting;
Fighting to find peace; a reason; a kink.
The only truth is there will be an end.
The only reality is the coming night.
Till then we pretend & fight.
Fight for a new horizon.
Fight for a new song.
Fight; fight for what we believe is right.
Fight till the break of dawn.
Come. Come let us fight.
So? Another encore.
It’s a cornball in a rom-com
With a soul bowl in a roll toll
In a tongue rolled; miscord
Don’t know what I am in for?
Kicks back with the kick backs
Moral compass? He lost that.
Knows that it has gone bad.
But the legacy is a mismatch.
It’s a free for all, fall brawl
Call me Sting cause I stand tall
In the rafters, awaiting disaster.
That’s a reference over your head.
Means you lose authority to the reverend
And this shit just never ends
Grey blends with the lens of the hens
Dying; butchered; easy substitution.
Refusing to bow though. The victory is sad though.
Just changing bad with worse; it is a curse.
The conscientious refuse to stand tall.
Eventually, reality dawns. I am the one.
The one that I waited for.
Expecto patronum.
Stand tall. No applause? Screw you all.
Himanshu Chakravarty Sharma / मंच 