The chameleon’s soul

I am,

the dweller of ravines that never bore an offspring and of fertile plains too

perched inside me are the deserts in glove with stifling humid rains

my facade stretched between prescribed faith & mendicant ways,

equally lured towards obscurity and bling fame

my acts are celibate as the temple purohit and excessing too,

like the dope czar

I’m in perpetual flux,

staticity is lost

like unripe figs seemingly sweet,

but with everlasting bitter taste

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