As the twilight smoke roosts in his forlorn yard
The old man rouses from a dazed drowse
For one more trudge past that bygone boulevard
To walk a misspent life to rue, coddled echoes to carouse

Gazing the shades of fleeting days, gaging life in lingering nightfalls
Seeking to infer His signs profound, he tries to read the heavens high
A life amiss, strewn years across age, dwelled in a castle with empty walls
“Who made this of you?” I asked, he said “Me, myself, who else” with a throbbing sigh

Not so charmed, he warily recounts, the costs and throbs of a so-so life
What became of him, a soul pristine, over time, why he squandered away?
A gift sublime, would a frenzied soul know, how to spend, with insolence rife?
“So be it!” as he atones and reconciles, in the cold light of day

How fondly kindled, a mother’s love, a sweet little realm of purity
First love, still fresh dew from sky, alas it skirted a lovelorn heart
An angel born, a father too, they traded love of verity
Losing a son to a pride profound, does he care? Not the tiniest part

So lost in life, never cherished the chirps nor the endless shroud of horizon
Its marvels abound, fill his awe-struck soul, with solace unbound
Cunning crafts of Mother Nature divine, for every shred to emblazon
A dying old man, how he yearns to live for the pure bliss of a soul unwound

Idly sipping the last few dribbles, as dusk lumbers into a murky night
Not unwary of the looming end, alas a very lone one though
Beholds its splendor, quietus, the supreme redeemer that unchains the soul with maker to unite
Sunsets apart, a broken man, toils his soul, for immortal peace to grow

© 2015 Vikas Chandra