Mad people,
Run in and out,
After shadows and illusions,
Deprived of love.
Only companions?
Walls on four sides,
A window and some pills.
With insane imaginations,
And constant mutterings,
Shocks at regular intervals,
After which they are more mad,
Which set them,
In prehistoric times,
On mammoths and serpents,
With dinosaurs and dragons,
For some,
It is just a unicorn
With mist as the terrain.
Sometimes, it is
In the court of Mughals,
The mad Mughals,
But their cuisine.
So good.
One even said,
He thought he was one of the three Magi who carried birthday gifts,
Frankincense and myrrh.
With a bag of experience on their backs,
They pretend to be mad,
They find peace,
In the most chaotic chambers,
Of the madhouse.
To them, the blank pages are good.
To them, the pages are obedient,
Because they don’t bleed words,
And feelings and emotions.
They are shallow,
So shoal.
Privileged to roam around,
And stay awake late at nights.
With greying strands of hair and a weak set of teeth.
They stay awake,
To think about their past victories against the Mongolians,
And the narrow escapes from the grasps of the Sentinelese.
To them, great authors are insane,
They say they do not understand what authors scribbles on white pages and dirty them.
And they go on thinking,
With not more than the least interruption that is absolutely necessary.
They are happy,
The wild, insane and the damned nuts are happy.
But they are unthankful to the clock,
That has robbed them,
Of their sanity,
And gifted them,
With senility.


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