Sunday suicide fest

Lingering sedated slumber, on the same wrecked bed
This Sunday, me a mystic, who divines, his lot ahead
Oh! Done with this hide-and-seek, with self, and time
Would this man, still shy away, from that sin, sublime?

Every nerve dug out today, the roots of that evil tree
Tentacles cleaved away, of that octopus, on the spree
The agony that became me, beyond the soul, to hold
Now I forsake, that legacy, to a willing heart, I once sold

I end for world! No! World ends for me! Both same
Not in talking terms, sworn enemies, none to blame!
A life, barren, like a blank check, never signed, to redeem
Spent up every tear, every wail, this soul, declines to scream

The maid did come, to make my bed, O’ with lustless eyes, I stare
Has impotent, gone this dying man, his manhood, laid out bare
That next door kid, smiled at me, but, failed to stir, my soul
The daily scribbled, minus my obituary, will someone pay its toll?

Baptized, to be, a dream to her, that woman, I called mother
Manhood earned, that boy one day, his pride, beset his father
Was it love, rapture or brazen deceit, I took it all, in my stride?
Never betrothed to life quite, will death be, my chosen bride?

Have savored blood, from bleeding gum, would end be just, as sweet?
Have vanquished fears, over many years, to win this, cherished defeat
Tranquil me! From my balcony, as I gape at, my tomb below
Did heart miss a beat! Not indeed! When a man’s dogged, to go

Saturnine sun as rages above, bustling fairs below, blare, “Sunday fest”
Consumed in life-lust, many goblets downed, unquenched yet, that immortal quest
An empty man, so far away, sips spits of sin, sighs, “My Lord’s within!
If end is all, which counts in the world, I lose to death, for a life to win!”

That moment of truth or lie, lies ahead, as I plunge to death
In ticks of time, lay a shattered man, so numb, out of breath
The fest goes on and on, on the crimson mosaic, of my entrails
Whilst I rest, in eternal bliss, the world regales, with my bloody tales

© 2015 Vikas Chandra


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