Would less be, me a Jesus but!
Good Friday ain’t, just near though
Yet Easter’s far, for phoenix’s woe
And my ashes smolder on, so what!

That promise, was a sin to make
Which brought me, to eternity’s end
How mortal is a man, godsend
Whose feats futile, his life’s keepsake

To rise yet again, from a castoff skin
To live a lie, and die a truth
Betwixt lie the, myriad guiles uncouth
Those wars we lost, for battles to win

Be sentenced to life, banished from redemption
Dogged fate of man, his hard-earned bread
One more messiah, hung by a thread
Waiting for a death, a resurrection

© 2016 Vikas Chandra