Turning dreams into nightmares
of the worst kind
is not the work of the darkness
of the night, but of the soul benighted,
the converse of beating swords
into ploughshares, in iterative progress,
meanings reworked, symbols too,
the semiotics of madness woven
confusedly into reality’s tapestry, out of true;
the power games are self-same,
only the rules crookedly changing,
out of contrariness, skewedly bending
even breaking, at the behest of the masters
of the dark art of the possible,
even the tectonics of truths
shifting, with little or no certain ground,
only wiles and wiliness serving as stratagem,
the strong suit in the plated armour;
in the end size would matter,
in effect, forsooth the bigger the better,
by diktat, by fiat, acquiring larger shares,
the table turned to egregious advantage,
in the ever green land of the egos
the prospects are never-ending,
legion empires rising and dismally falling
offering no sobering thought, pretence
an endlessly comforting commodity;
awry words diatribally or tribally fly,
salvoed from the bows of baleful invective,
then retracted, as if a gunshot is unshot;
the existential jigsaws get rearranged
for easier solutions ,for a roadmap to ply
easily, safely, predictably, if never to arrive
at a place entirely perfect;
meanwhile, humility, meekness, pay a heavy price
at the hand of hubris, cowed acolytes
coming to recognise the costs, if belatedly,
of all too humbly, self-interestedly playing along;
but even for the self-sure high and mighty
there is always a doleful swan song!
Jeewan Ramlugun
