With broken lust, and brazen pride
Impotent groom, gapes at his bride
And yet again, she rhymes to him
The echo of his, hackneyed hymn

“O poesy mine! Ain’t you the one?
My art divine, second to none!
Well! Each word is, my docile muse
I’m a dancing dwarf, in dead man’s shoes!”

And so, he struts, on the soul of art
A one-eyed king, with his blind sweetheart
Whose smitten minions, couldn’t care less
But find in triteness, a fine finesse

So sold is world, to this golden millstone
Littered, lost in time, is fancy’s hormone
Bygone that war of, grandest latitudes
Just left, rat-race of, Kings of Platitudes

© 2016 Vikas Chandra