Tense footsteps rambled about, getting the lay of the land.
He felt the undulation beneath, realised the worst one can,
The grotesque desert he was walking, had once been his own fertile land.
Hollow wails of gusty winds defiled the courage he had,
What once felt like flying in the sky, now made him crouch on the sand.
His bowed head caught a glimpse of things beneath the sand,
withered ruins left by time of the creations of his hand.
A thousand shards pierced his skin and sent up searing pain,
when the palpitating heart worked out orders of an irrational brain.
Tears trickled down the same old paved paths on the hardened cheeks,
His eyes showed something frail hiding behind the iris’ black veil.
Happy memories flashed and he saw a decade back,
when fifty friends, just like him, would shine from his mirrors’ ends.
Fifty youthful lads like him would sit, laugh and play,
Until the winds carrying a distant giggle would tell him whom he betrayed.
And there he sat a decade later, with just shards of glass at display,
Trying to find his feigning friends, trying to find a face.
A face that never felt like his, shared it was by fifty others,
A face within the contours of which manifested friends and brothers.
Like a hound he searched for it in every shard, in every piece,
The reflections though told a different story, showed the dusty silhouette of a withered beast.
– Karan Sapolia