Rests my quill, devoid of ink;
A tattered notebook, full of stolen lies.
Pages soaked with poison, purloined,
Witness to lore of a charlatan's mind.
A thief, I take, I steal, and seize,
Lusting in praise of the veneer I built.
Raucous remorse, strangled by claps,
I bow to the crowd, saddled with guilt.
They leave me mammon, forsaken again,
Cheering in ecstasy, unwary of cheat,
Filling the void with huzzahs received,
To a desolate home, I then haul my feet.
Gazing from slits, the silhouette in weeds,
Scribbles my mug of grief it conceived.
I cleanse my sins with the lather of fame,
But victims of yore still haunt me in dreams.
Restless in slumber, I'm presented to the court,
Guilty of murder in a chamber of screams.
Pleader of dead calls forth the victim - it's me,
I killed my ingenuity with blades of deceit.
A last vindication I'm asked to provide,
My throat full of sand withholds to abide.
Judge slams the gavel, I'm condemned to die,
But there's no escaping when ghosts are inside.
Satyam