And so it did when I saw this amazing painting by Shreya Shirgaokar, who apart from being a very good artist, also happens to be a good friend of mine. The painting mesmerized me enough to go ahead and make a poem on it. Looking at the painting again, I am skeptical if the words do it enough justice, but in all its rawness, here is the poem.
Stoic as a mountain
Still as a stone
His cold stare creeps
Through the skin, unto the bone.
He is a mean beast
I can always tell
But another glance at him
And I know I’m bound by a spell.
He urges me on
An unfathomable quest
To look in him deep
And envison nature’s best.
Amidst the magnificent coat
Of yellow and black and white
His icy blue eyes
Gleam and burn bright.
And his temple so rough
His temple so raw
Unkempt yet unmoved
Inspires all the awe.
With his unending charisma
He reflects beauty
But also radiates dread.
And the tiger’s hypnotic looks tell me
I’m mesmerized, I’m mad
For a closer encounter with beauty
I have never had.
What would you do if you had a pedophile dad?
What if you were forced in a choice you never really had?
He made that choice, and made it every night
With a quiet facade and jaws clenched tight.
What would you do if you were put through misery and pain
And were made to believe that all you did was going to go in vain?
He pushed through it and pushed real hard
And indeed went on to become Gotham’s best card.
And yet after winning this tough race
His colleagues mocked his diplomacy calling him Two Face.
He smiled through it and worked in silence
And became a DA, cracking down the Gotham’s crime and violence.
And yet he never won the respect and love he rightly deserved
For funnily, a caped crusader always had that spot reserved.
So in a woman he tried to seek peace and joy
But she was taken away from him and burnt like a wooden toy.
And when Carmine Falcone saw that his enthusiasm was still rife
They poured acid on him, scarring his face and conscience for life.
He still budged to give in for his mind was in place
Until the clown entered and turned it into empty space.
And right then the morale broke down inside him
Making his choices depend on a flip of a coin, his decisions on a whim.
He became a villain, but only because of the lack of hope
He wasn’t evil, he was just at the end of his rope.
And therefore although he broke in twain, remember that he never bent,
He was a fine man, he was Harvey Dent.