How spent is the nerve, of the dream forlorn
That dies every dawn, at the grave of twilight
Like the mist tangled, in the clasp of thorn
Its heart impaled, in the lap of night

How spent is the soul, lost in mortal flesh
That soars and sinks, like a restive tide
Its creed decreed, to forever enmesh
In the depths of, a squandered sea of pride

How spent is time, caged in echoes of self
Those weary songs, of history’s deceit
Why man in its squeeze, a tiny elf
Who suckles on, life’s poison sweet

How spent we too, on a wrinkled bed,
And stars above, our splintered eyes
Two barren souls, hung by a thread
We make love to, our silent sighs

© 2016 Vikas Chandra