Treason, call it, or sublime flaw
Of a mind, destined to, squander it all
Only lies where abound, and half-truths awe
And changes every moment, that writing on the wall

Every thought, a waif, which meanders thru those lanes
Where drunken serpents, make love to life’s pains
Every poesy has to die, to be reborn
Like that mortal bud, now immortal thorn

How spent is mind, in an unquenched soul
When toils of heart, tills the farm of flair
What’s lost amidst, this throbbing affair
Are the thoughts profound, which pay its toll!

Never man resolves, art’s cryptic quests
Unpaid remains, heart’s aching cost
When done with art, its mystic fests
Soul sings alone, those poems lost

© 2016 Vikas Chandra