The Mad Man

Fingers point at him
Children laugh at him
Spotted on a spot
He looks tattered and haggard
He is crazy
He is insane
He says to himself, “No I am sane”
Looking at everyone
He thinks “they are all mad
There is mutual ridicule
He knows there is an existence of discontinuity
He knows there is an exhibition of false cues
He understands his disorder cannot be masked
He seats in the market square yelling
Speaking incoherently, with huge distortions
Gazing hard at his subjects
He seeks for vulnerability in their eyes
To assault impulsively
With marvel, the climate, he disregards
They all stare at him
He is misguided
Pathological reasoning undetected
Realisations of his society’s norms are gone
Even of accepted simple structured behaviour
He looks at the world amused by his acts
The housewife who nags her husband like the pain in his soul
The unruly kids who are hyperactive with an embryonic attention span
The man who returns home every night drunk as skunk, staggering and vomiting
The young lad sniffing and smoking drugs and acting weird as him
The lady in her mid life crises with no clue of destinations
The market men and women negotiating trade on the top of their voices
His feelings all very precise
Premonitions concise
He says to himself defensively- “Are they not all mad”?
What differentiates us are standards of acceptance
He laughs hysterically at this thought
He then withdraws pensively
He opens his dirty torn sack
Cries hard while searching for a tabard he picked up from the streets
He puts this on in utter disbelief and displeasure
Covers his exposing torso
Goes through a process of self deprecation
Slaps his head continuously
And mutters something evidently
Again in disbelief, runs east bound
And never returned
In retaliation to madness
In conformity to his psyche
Whatever the drive
My imagination points it as a riddle
It could only go thus far

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