Cold anvil’s like ever, my cynical soul
How hard do I hit, that earthy shape
My mind’s mallet, too takes its toll
When a blistered heart, is all I scrape!

Better me in a realm, of triviality
Than chisel my piece, on my naïveté’s tomb
Let mine be, another fatality
Why to race with self, for elusive aplomb?

Then I gazed megaliths, monsters bequeathed
Those Wordsworths, Keats, Eliots …et al
My hands trembled, my chisel shrieked
“Your insolence is, beyond the pale!”

But this germ which sowed, my destiny
Was a truth sublime, and not a myth
Let the hulks, hold on, to their hegemony
And bless felony, of a Half-hearted Wordsmith

© 2016 Vikas Chandra