One who tilled the farm of fury, in hearts,
Then sowed the seeds of longing, meanly
To burst and bloom, into pain’s sweethearts
How vicious is the gardener, of man’s poetry?

Drips out each word, from heart’s rhapsody
Like pain’s signature, on a staring white lie
And a mob they make, on a shroud of vanity
To strive for a place, for just a half an eye

Why penury be their lot, and reward, oblivion
Who cherry-pick, shed thorns, of fall
To build their, forlorn dominion
Where door ain’t there, to talk to wall

Yet digs on old graves, to raise new tomb
Of literature, spent out, on dole
Still barren lies, ingenuity’s womb
Sighs poetry, that yearning of soul.

© 2016 Vikas Chandra