… And she walks me, thru the dreary lanes, yet again
Sells a saccharine smile, that slyly flirts
With a soul that sways, from bliss to pain
Flaunts her art profane, banality hurts!

What news is to a newspaper, an empty spell, in a hollow shell?
She’s eternal echo, of long-spent concerts
Haunting hum, of flair’s death-knell
What masses not, but classes tell, “Banality hurts!”

She’s still the cynosure, alas!
A holy keep, of pompous perverts
Whose lacks of visions, fancies surpass
The piety of her prejudiced class, banality hurts!

Why world’s a mob of, mediocre minds
And triviality’s all, their creed asserts
How vain are means and ends, of grinds
Of those comatose kinds, banality hurts!

© 2016 Vikas Chandra