Lost voices

Still. You remain still.
Yet, speak a thousand words. 
Who is the silent speaker inside 
of me? 
You see, you hear, you judge, you 
snigger; a mirror broken into pieces,
they take several roles, times, spaces.
Demons that were asleep suddenly
wake up in the middle of a doublespeak
raillery. Their tongues reaching 
up to the sky talking of the past, 
only of the past, pulling off  
a nauseating course of memories. 
I crawl toward the garden, but my hands
are stampede with brown leaves, full
of words, forlorn lovers.

Is this the world, a stillborn world
that I nursed within, with resilience,
faith, and affection? Just when death
was born in front of me, I fathomed that
it was a fake offspring that was giving me
the genuine pain of a new-born.
You
pick up those slices of glass, pelt a

thousand questions at me. They sound
gibberish. 

The world is massacred with words 
whose sweethearts, actions, are lying 
dead; a mound of cadaverous lives
moving inside the womb feigning birth, 
waiting to come out as lost paramours; 
only their voices masquerade, a downpour 
of mimicries.

© supratik 2021
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