Had left my soul, in summer sun, on neighbor’s line, to dry
Yet damp remains, my broken mirth, on the lap of teary night
Let the cinders, of my fire die
And I see through my lie, then I’ll write!
Bare paper white, still stares at me
And me at the moon, sighing, ever so quiet
Let me fumble thru my, faith’s debris
And find lost ‘me’, then I’ll write!
Not on speaking terms, that realm at all
Which beatifies, ‘pièce de résistance’, trite
Let that ‘hall of fame’, fall, wall by wall
And the hell befall, then I will write!
Who loves to stow, the storms in heart
Is the one, who holds the monster’s might!
Let the pain seep thru, my soul’s rampart
Redeem my art, then I’ll write
© 2016 Vikas Chandra