Would you call it solace, hanging by a flirting hope?
That knotted thread, which no one knits
And fate, a dream, in shadows we grope
Whom soul convicts, and heart acquits

Needless, we know, is this endless chase
For the sinning soul, of a, fleeting aplomb
Which stares at the mirror, of its vanity’s face
And shouts, from the top, of its lasting tomb

That grace, which weighed on, her buckled blush
Now lingers alone, in a wrinkled maze
A smile which was she, on a passion lush
Now a tear lost, in tranquility ablaze

Same battle of wits, between heart and soul
Of noble moves, ignoble ploys
Let the rituals of life, take their toll
For a handful of dust, and speck of poise

© 2016 Vikas Chandra