Closet Of Faces
In the closet there hangs Faces of mine.
by Pradeep Dhavakumar
Lined up Prisoners, sentenced for lifetime.
I walk around warming neurons to identify.
Where these faces lay in the axis of time.
Molded, grafted and colored to perfection.
So real science shall fail to discriminate.
Expressions etched to minutest details.
Even persuasive time shall fail to obliterate.
Captured, saved and written in the eyes.
People and Places who passed its gates.
Reminding yore moments of this mysterious life.
Which those faces meticulously translates.
Bloomed joyous when rolling tears were kissed.
Swirled contracted when gooseberries were bit.
Expressionless insipid when caught red-handed.
Openmouthed excited when cold sea waves hit.
Startled enlightened when lies were discovered.
Courageous fighting when insults were hurled.
Glowing confused when love was first felt.
Victorious proud when success was earned.
The sculpting chisel, whose hands does hold?
Is it mine alone or others of known and unknown?
Is it fate that many say, I despise to acquiesce?
Or is it far beyond the intelligence men own?
Two empty shelves remain polished and clean.
For two more quarters of life, ere I burn.
What faces will stack, what scars decorate?
After death, to find my spirit shall return.