The mystique, called death


vikas chandra

The longest mile, to the shortest stretch
That moment of trial, recalls we etch
On a heart, that denies, the truth of end
We lift our dead, on solemn sighs, to send

On that last pilgrimage, of no return
What’s a cold man’s creed? We bury, or burn!
On the edge, of grave, as we bid goodbyes
On seething pyre, as we bewail a demise

Of that body we loved, whose life undone
We called something, to that someone
Was it agony’s height, or a weak soul’s plight?
Unnerved, traumatized, by a dead man’s sight!

As we grieve that loss, what loss is it?
A man gone to grave, his being’s every bit?
Or that life, we cherished, day-to-day
Until his soul, chose to walk away

Undone jobs, unfinished joys, so to say
Death, the final toll of life, we all pay
Life a cynical lie, death the only certainty

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