For the only words, that touch our hearts
Are the ones that, rend off throbbing seed
Neither more, nor less, of Bonapartes
Conquests in duress, to write, is to bleed

And would they know, this art of gore
Mediocrity is whose, lasting deed?
How many lost, in thoughts, galore?
Heart’s holocaust, to write, is to bleed

This fest of blood, in this spell of lunacy
Heart bleeds, in joy, wails a soul wearied
How beautiful, is this, mind’s truancy
Adds fuel, to the flame, to write, is to bleed

He’s bound to die, at his desk, to redeem
That writer, who chose not, to sell his creed
To resurrect, that blood-seeking dream
For a sin perfect, to write, is to bleed

© 2016 Vikas Chandra