The Contradiction

He used to walk with the air of confidence

And nothing but a straight heart

As fresh as the dew-drops on a violet’s face

But yes, he had a bad part

He was fun, he was good and his motives were pure

But nobody knowing him seemed to be sure

He thought that machines had life and poetry was it

Swore his life by great men, their works and mystic trips

In this pursuit of perfection, sometimes he used to irritate

Sometimes you would love him, but most of the times hate

Living betwixt extremes and compromising on worldy ways

Idealogy deep in and reality for the play.

He thought that life is great

But the world has to become a better place

He did, but failed, and yet kept trying

He didn’t realize that the good part was dying

Sometimes he was strong, and at other times he was weak

And all they thought was that it was a psychic streak

He went on and on, bearing the brunt for his goal

And one day he finally said ‘Not anymore!’

He burnt his books, beliefs and even his soul

Wounded and limping, he vanished with a sore.

Some wondered, some curious, but most of them didn’t bother

But some of them who used to care tried to get farther

For some time the talk was there in the evening get-together’s

But the practically speaking, he was not worth a feather

And life went on as normal, the cars running as they should

Computers worked just fine, microwaves heated the food

And up there in a corner someone had started a design

Not data, not information, but a knowledge mine

Everything seemed to be great but then many a years later

A hurricane came from the north, and machines were acting funny

Select’s started inserting and updates were going crazy

Confusion in the air and outside it started pouring

Out there in a dark room, cans of beer lying all around

A stench of tobacco and some clicks in the background

Then next day it was snowing on a sunny day

Things were still awry and sugar tasted like salt

A hand full of blood keeps coming on the display

And somebody said those words ‘Who was John Galt?’

A maniac’s laughter, in tears of sorrow, a knife on the shelf

Someone started bleeding to death, for he had gone against himself