They Call It FameA Poem by Pratik
“The fame thing isn't really real… you know…Don't forget …I'm also just a girl… standing in front of a boy… asking him to love her.” Julia Roberts (as Anna Scott in Notting Hill) A pseudo-panorama, On the tainted panes Of my white limousine, The mutant flashes Of thousands flashbulbs Engaged in a bedazzled seizure Of my synthetic effigy, Through the night’s curtains I see the scuffling torsos Of Jurassic shadows, The catcalls and yelps calling, Garbled variants of my name Coalesce in the exhaled air, Like a frosty slush inundating Ruins of the wraith town, They clamor in tiny streams For the last piece of molded cheese. They call it Fame. In parallel chronologies, When I gag in taffeta pillows And purging in crystal lights, I tell stories Of a lost fable. Once upon a time, Camouflaged in the folds, There lay a sculpture Drawing cryptic contours Around my navel ring. As I saw the coy smile fading, The stolid face In a luminescence of shadows, Your construed truths, Mumbles of constrained space, Soaring ambitions and antagonistic lives, There were few beats Of my plummeting heart That knew what was coming. It was over. Sooner than the flicker of fireflies. But there were leftovers, A melanin residue, He called it Fame. © 2012 PratikAuthor's Note
Featured Review
Reviews
|
Stats
1627 Views
27 Reviews Shelved in 1 Library
Added on February 16, 2012Last Updated on October 5, 2012 AuthorPratikRaleigh, NCAboutHello! I am Pratik Mukherjee from Calcutta, India - the city of Mother Teresa and the famous poet Tagore. My pen name is Aaran, a variant of the word 'Aran' and derived from the Aran Islands, a gro.. more..Writing
Related WritingPeople who liked this story also liked..
|