Commentaries of an Observer

Updated: Jun 20

I watch them now; their heads tipped low,

mouth letting loose a dejected sigh

A mourner walking with acute stillness,

A battlefront march of the damned;

with the hint of a doleful visage,

gaze stubbornly fixed on obscure horizons

Their flesh mimics the hollows of their eyes,

incriminate a falter that lays cracks in each step,

the waning slip of reality taking its final stand,

Do you not find it strange, that they were once blessed?

How ironic to now descry;

one that has bore witness to tormenting revelations;

the obliviousness in their gait,

the subtle posture, all just the same,

falling steadily into lines cemented till their graves

Yet where once were strolls through joyous visions,

a moment of present lost to pleasant fantasy,

is now found overcast by a dreary desolate might

For this time- I am inclined to note-

the ‘pleasantness’ of their daydream had morphed,

quite on its own accord it would seem,

into more melancholy musings-

without so much as a by your leave!

Dosed in a despair that had tasted,

underlying flavours of brooding anguish

I do not really know them-

a mere spectator: my existence

Their unfamiliar presence, the image of their countenance,

has no hope of any recognition here

Nor am I privy to their perturb minds

for more than they care to share,

their hallucinations are foreign, crafted of unique sadness,

a momentary trance for escape now bastardised,

swiftly bound for a bout of madness

What had caught my attention then:

through the peculiarity of a passing glance, a delicate fancy,

a forlorn disposition made itself known

A perspective not told, yet revealed,

a plunge into the pool of sorrow, not one's own

A pain, a loss, a regret so sudden, so deep,

it could not bear to be hidden, least alone it weeps

If you lend your ear, a jester will inform you,

laughter is never muted by measure, as loathed as melancholia,

Our intentions laying sheathed in cashmere cloaks,

protected from candour, but every soldier still proclaims:

even armour bears flaws, scratched out with surface pains

While blacksmiths may boast of dexterous endeavours,

their molded shields are not spared a contagious human essence

Fears and mistakes that paralyse our motions, make shallow our ambitions,

the tangled roots of wilted souls that drag us into chasms

Yet the battles that plague us do not seek a reason,

the sorrows that unite us do not find it so sorrowful,

It is the purpose of their existence, only, to be impassive.

Drawing back to where the subject began,

the eye’s of those who watch, now piercing in its glance

Observing endlessly the figures that parade,

straining to place mirrors and smoke for a charade

For these sad reveries of perfect strangers,

scattered elegantly upon silken strands of light,

show far clearer in these maudlin shadows,

Who are we, to judge their plight?

I had watched them then, too, you see,

trapped in a finer illusion, possessed by a better mind

Perhaps then were they truly living,

shimmering in rose gold untinted with grey

Morphing appearances, reflecting what’s unsaid,

seeing lonely flowers bask in delight,

not solitude, instead

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