Death On A Cold Afternoon


vikas chandra

And yes I am, those bristling eyes
That gaze underneath, half-raised petticoats
Of deflowered mornings, which bled to the afternoon’s sighs
And thru the cornered abattoir’s, dangling full-slit throats

The dust did awaken, like a profound question
And lingered in the air; hanged on, haunting soul of the sun
Thru the mirror I stared, then gaped, at my brazen confession
“What becomes of me, whence a life undone?”

I race in dust, with rabid dogs, on unrelenting streets
And beggars I kiss, grope for orgies, in their threadbare manhoods
I suckle day’s sins, while I recount her teats
I search myself, in sun-washed neighborhoods

So one last time, I raise a toast, to my conquests
And gage kindled wings, in my bursting cocoon
And a soul does whisper, to a life’s spent fests
O’er my scorching remains, on a cold afternoon

© 2016 Vikas Chandra

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