TRAPPINGS

TRAPPINGS
Afzal Moolla

Flitting in
and out
of malls,

Scouring the aisles
for more,

always for more,

walking,
undead,
through glittering halls.

Seeking out

Luscious fabrics,
softest silk,
satin velvet,
crushed denim,
faux-fur,
trinkets and biscuits,
sleek gadgets,
that perfect shoe,
a must-have accessory,
cars, curtains, silver-ware,
gold time-pieces,
that stunning set of pearls,
as empty desire
gleefully unfurls.

Piling onto
heaving trolleys,

food

and

more food,

and yet more food,

to lighten the spirit,
to elevate the mood

as countless starve,

a prime pot-roast
of dead flesh
we must carve.

Yet,
emptiness prevails

as quaint notions
of professed humility

silently creep,
scurrying
out the back,

while unquenchable need
mutates, grows, pines,

it’s insatiable hunger,
no longer able to feed.

The saga continues,
smiling faces
lobotomised

in the intoxicated haze,
with eyes shimmering
through a toxic
consumption-fueled,
trance-like glaze.

Trapped
within the trappings
of excess,

the undead
waltz on,

oblivious
to the torn consciences

that have
been so neatly,
so brutally,

shred.

©2012 This work is the property of the author.