Foolish Glory

The ovations do a round and the lonely little squirmer within you, patted down. Hush, another says and you stand down. The eyes of others, golden proud and in sinks your heart. It’s a lie, you whisper about. But the other gloats a little, satisfied and sound. You unclench and unfold, clenching the commendations into a fold. The unflappable idiocracy at the behest of their flappable egos turn their heads towards you in awe. But you know the solemn truth. Your only truth. Stop says the other, it’s not all a charade. Why couldn’t you have earned it, it asks with silly perturbation. Alas, you nod your head in denial. 

Time wanes on and so do you amidst the burdening self revelations. Nevertheless, the mercy of the divinity or some who call it your genius pours down with ardent, unwavering vigor through out and on. Or so you think. You doubt its a shiny reflection of the bygones turned into dust in your clenched hand. You quiver in silence and then selectively oblivious, celebrate with coveted elixirs and precious notes. You keep your grateful and dithering side aside. The other since then has become thick and unsatisfied. It sits on a hunch of tremendous wants and gleeful protests of unimaginable conceited self banner. Alas, you nod your head in agreement. 

As the end creeps, it salutes with a knowing hand. A recognizable face, a tale so old, once and many times told to you by the wise and better. The tale which fed the side which you slowly and steadily poisoned shut. What remained in you turns its ugly head and hides underneath the face of fear and cowardice. The vibrations of old ovations ring in your head still. This time, it jolts your insides. You try. You try hard to conjure up the little squirmer, the better. What comes out, however, is mutated filth. Alas, you nod your head blank.