Wax dolls that won’t talk;
Long roads that don’t walk;
Stuffed birds who shall not fly;
Bleeding hearts that refuse to die;
Tango music which can’t dance;
Hungry hobo in his drug-induced trance;
On social networks to not socialize;
China-clay idols with bleeding eyes;
Vampire bat sculptures who can’t suck;
Plastic rose-petals I can’t pluck;
A few things that I see,
while I walk along the sidewalk,
immersed in my own self-righteous greed,
of love and lust and anarchy.
Are we all that inane and pointless?
By: Viraj Belgaonkar