vikas chandra

Uproars galore in the cage of souls, how life redeems the price of poise
For a menagerie of “sane” souls outside, a far-flung clamor, gamely evaded
Are they lesser broods of God, if not, then why He toys?
With subdued spirits, destined to futility, bare paraded

In angst dissolved, solemnity of man, solemn though, a distanced view of world
Asylum né madhouse for some, where spent souls stroll thru unending span
In chase of what? Sanity? How to discern, what is what, with a notion blurred?
A sordid tale sketches every soul, for cultures to seclude an insane clan

A loss profound that stole an age, alas, lost in past, an aging man
A refuge to qualms, penance, insolence, moans and yelps, an inevitable quicksand
Who they belong to? They shoulder each other, while nowhere goes their caravan
Entrapped castaways, wild pigeons, can’t just flutter away, with iron walls to withstand

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