The Half-hearted Wordsmith

vikas chandra

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 I chisel my fief, on my naïveté’s tomb
Let mine be, another fatality
Why to race with self, for elusive aplomb?

Then I gaped at 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

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