Devolution Poem by Praveen Kumar In Shobha Priya

Straw dolls of plastic backbones,
Of clouded eyes, of splintered bone-frames
Crowd the world like cancerous growth;
Devolution devours souls of men
And blights all hopes of redemption.

Democracy is an infectious spell
That brings stature stamp on common popular mood
Of ease, leisure and shortcut roads;
It breeds and feeds rabble madness
That inebriates men to false secure feelings
And traduces them to common factors.

In rabbles, man loses himself,
His innate atone shatters to splinters
And spawns weak, indistinct noise
That never rises above deafending explosion
Of erratic growth and mad speed of his world.

The foul garbage of din, heat and speed
Fouls all tastes for peace and quietude
And disturbs man in refreshing open air.

Man knows not his self
And gropes in darkness for groping's sake
And groping everywhere, he plunges to hollow womb
With disturbed Self, mangled and mauled
In futile search for unexisting light.

He is divided in steep chasm
Of dead and still-born moral codes
And stifled to dreadfull vicious, vacuum;
His Self is in incessant fall,
Confounded beyond hope and emancipation
While oblivious of innate soaring riches.

Wealth oils life for comforts
Though wealth is not life itself;
While puppets flourish in gluttonous motion,
Steel-frames emaciate in dumb pride
And implosions of defeat crack their steel
And constrain them to devolve to mad mainstream;
Aye, who saves this accurst mankind
From the vicious trap of devolution?