Tumour by Atul Sundriyal

Like a captive with some inmates,
He was surrounded by his own fantasies.
Manuring em’, Everyday, he was,
Learning the higher extremes of insanity.

Who cares? If baby’s been flirting,
Passion stinks, Love blinds,
Instincts rules, stupidy guides,
A very filthy stuff, dowsed in mud.

Breaks Mirrors, to hide ugliness.
Turns of lights, to hide darkness.
Pour more, to hide emptiness
Fakes more, to hide the vacuum.

A vacuum? Between them and that creep.
Stuggles one step forward, rebounds two back,
Stumbles a step, screams a psychedelic number,
And thinks he has made his escape.

Disillusions overcast, there’s a forecast,
That he is making it all prearranged
Breeds the Tumour more and more,
And makes way to where his journey ends.

Look, Dead man Walking.