“In Solitude, the solitary man consumes himself, in the crowd the crowd consumes him.”–Friedrich Nietzsche
Amid the sonorous crowd,
loneliness sings its own symphony.
While you make love to solitude,
the deep, dark river flowing within,
Preposterous, the crowd,
with droplets of sweat and the cloudburst of conceit,
Think you are clad with your own nudity
amid the faceless drapes.
They serenade around, like kites
flowing in their air, their words,
tainted smiles bubble up, melting, disjoined.
The daylight and the dusk pirouette,
their algorithm matched in unerring steps
rejoice in this indolent repartee.
With laser eyes, while they scan your countenance,
the crescendo and fall of your breath,
the silhouetted darkness of your tresses
swaying in the familiar landscape,
they miss the wordless carnival within,
Where you break and tweak,
Burn and rise up again,
from your own deep trenches.
All Rights Reserved. Lopa Banerjee. July 25, 2015