Mansion of Lies

By Joel Doni Chirappurathu

Laurels of silence, built on a dream

For grass on my back, beside a cold quiet stream.

In ounces of glory found empty of cheer,

I wonder why I'd chase something so queer.

What then more is the want of dust

In the time it has before it returns to the crust?

Under radiant constellations, in a matrix of black,

A beautiful warm wish, for some old friends back.

In a cage of red under a cage of white,

In a world of dark, a sweet little light

That whispered a promise for old time’s sake,

As gentle and blissful as winter's first snowflake—

Of this quiet room in my mansion of lies,

Where time stands still, and people don't die.

Though it is cruel, though it is a lie,

It is what keeps that little light alive—

To hope and pray, till a fool meets his end,

That someday, a beautiful wish I'll tend.

And somewhere in this maze, of lost knots and ties,

I'd find a key out of my mansion of lies.

And then time would stop again, and remember the cost...

Perhaps some things are better remained lost.

For in this castle of words so sour,

Hiding in its centre is a safe little coward.

Crouched on the ground, holding his knees,

Before the gravestone of his memories,

Where lies a boy buried within,

Who felt the sheer cold behind life’s sunny grin.

A shovel lays before him, along with a breath of regret—

“Maybe, just maybe, I’ll bring him back from the dead.”

Thunderclaps outside remind him of his debt;

In destroying his home, he had nothing to get.

Hallways opened by broken doors

Only went deeper into the dark's roar.

And finally, in the echoes of a beautiful dream,

Presents a chance for a broken heart to scream—

And cry, and wail, of things gone by...

Just why won’t this insanity die?

Why I ask, I do not know.

Lies are a showman's only show.

And like the audience’s eyes know the dancer,

Even better does he know the answer.

In a glass case lies golden armor—

But my time for war is still much farther.

Still I am yet to learn the sword and the bow;

I have so much to know, much more to grow.

Amidst life’s whip, and a slave so coy,

I'd tend to forget the slave is still a boy.

Blood stains his back and tears caress his face—

In the end, he's been sent to a cruel, dark place.

And now to his friend, reduced to but a stone,

He whispers to the light: let another promise be known—

“To you, my brother, my life, my friend,

I care not how many years, or how many dead ends.

Someday I'll learn how to earn your pride.

I'll pick up the shovel, with vigor in my stride.

I'll walk to your grave, my brave dear self.

I'll bring you back, and embrace you again.”

By Joel Doni Chirappurathu