Treasure Island

Devanshi Khetarpal and Trivarna Hariharan


The Silver Monocle


Sedulously, he carved a neighbourhood in the
mirror. Finding that ersatz reflection strangely demure,
he resolved never to fix his eyes on the Janus-faced,
conniving reflector ever again. Underneath the pedestal,
his physiognomy slipped into hebetude like the disjointed
craters of the argentate moon. The flocculent glass- besmeared
with the vacuousness of the tribe, shut its aviary to abort the
childless womb. The glint of the moon stigmatised, gave away to
a sterile light, the most strident of its kind, belittling the
monarch of the night to a moping ovoid. The shrills
of impotence, and the pleas of arbitrary compunction
did not penetrate the walls of the frigid hearts. The ovoid
had asserted its firmness. Had left a blot on the escutcheon.
When the maculated samizdat breathes its last murky sigh
to affirm the Guy Fawkes night, let us ascend that throne of the
bawling broken rock tears of the moon that will espouse us,
in the times we don't gather our amours to caress it.

Submitted: Friday, April 11, 2014
Edited: Friday, April 11, 2014

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Topic(s): life

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