We pointed with  index finger at the face,
The face that fell silent in a room of faces.
Cane chairs were all that were to be pulled
But there seemed no music of the chairs
That was playing ,only some more silence.

Face is not the index of the mind, its index
Being at the tips of  eyes, where words had
Frozen at some point of time in the bathroom
Before chairs moved from place to place.

We now sit and gawk in wonder at the face
In wonder at a running face that once was,
With eyes blinking behind glasses from life.
We wonder at the life in eyeballs of glass
its tender ego lurking in them as wet proof
Of life , of animated love and responsibility
For life's events, under illusions of control.

Our anxious chairs made no noises of faces.
Their light movement betrayed no emotion,
Only fear of  index fingers stopping to point
At the immobile face , bursting with the past.

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