Dharanidhar Adhikari
In the theater of the absurd, where shadows don their capes,
A flower boasts of love, in the dimmest of escapes.
Her petals flung wide open, in the limelight’s gapes,
But shrivel up when reality, in moonlight, shapes.
She pirouettes in daylight, a marvel for all eyes,
A master class in passion, or so she implies.
Yet, when the audience departs, and the last echo dies,
The fervor’s just a ghost, that barely even tries.
She murmurs in the zephyrs, a concert for the crowd,
Proclamations bold and brassy, oh, she’s ever so loud.
But in the silence that ensues, away from the madding crowd,
The symphony’s a farce, in solitude enshrouded.
Oh, this grandiose display of affection, such a curious affair,
A heart that seems to scream, in a vacuum of despair.
On the public stage, her love’s a billionaire,
But behind closed doors, it’s penniless, bare.
Yet, hope springs eternal, in the cynic’s frosty heart,
Wishing for a thaw, in this comedic part.
For love’s not merely a script, nor a well-rehearsed art,
But a quiet bond, in a farce that we depart.
So, on this festival of fabrications, beneath the guise of glee,
I pen this satirical verse, a jest to set us free.
To uncover a love that’s genuine, beyond the masquerade’s decree,
And cultivate it to flower, in irony’s sea.
May this poem be a raft, adrift from façade to truth,
A voyage from the superficial, to authenticity’s booth.
Where performances of affection, and silent yearnings, in sooth,
Converge in a stream of sincerity, oh, such uncouth!
