Who forgot me, are not the ones, who cared
Those who recall, are but the ones, who blared
“You ain’t the one, cherished, on our roster
Neither Keats nor Yeats. Not a bard! An imposter!”
How many miles more, to walk this oblivion?
A castaway, do I dare, cross-over to their dominion?
Who are poets and prosers, not petty imposers, like me!
Whose hearts spew out, the pride of clout and creativity
Never penned a rhyme, that lasted beyond, a day or two
To not be read, so short an age, of a dream, born to rue
How many times, I perused it, shouted out, my hushed heart
The verse that bore, scorn galore, at maker’s hand, now ripped apart
Measure of my joy, every time was she, or more than that!
Then why besieged, my naïve poesy, in this vicious spat
With those, who care to bless, chosen creations of times
And etch in stone, the bizarre laws, of novelty’s paradigms
What makes a man known, in this world, alas!
Not self-worth, but a lavish lie, that sells his class
To awaiting mobs, with hearts in hands, to buy
That sweet deceit, that sells their souls to a lie
Why is a man, just not content, with a confined glory?
Why he begs, goes all out, to hawk his, cherished story?
Is fame essence, to a tame pretense, to memorialize a man?
Indeed it is! For that lasting bliss, from the time, man began
Whatever be, my destiny, a spark enough, to lead my way
As I toil at desk, size my text, to context, with dogged words, stray
Who recount, mystic tales, of what befalls them, enroute
How they array, like mimed elves, witness to a, vain pursuit
Whose heart was it, which never moaned, with pain awash?
Whose art was it, which never failed, christened, “panache”?
Here lies a man, on piles of routs, a soul spent up, and scarred
Still braves the tide, for a dream, a pride, a Godforsaken bard!
© 2015 Vikas Chandra
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