M. K. AHMED
What I call ‘myself’
Is a runaway time thief. I
catch glimpses of him
In bits of memory
pasted on album pages............
In splintered - mirror reflections
of peeled out years.........
in yellowed nostalgic letters
treasured by friends............
and sniper-shots of bile
showered by my detractors. I wonder
which one
in this vast rogues gallery
is the real me.
…….Or are these
the shadow sequences
in a wayside bioscope
of the ‘me’ held captive
in an unknowable
unreachable land
of a medieval entertainer?