Same sun, that stabs, thru the blood of night
Same clock, that stares, at my endless plight
Same door which opens, to the mean, mean world
Same “I” stands alone, with fate’s flag, unfurled

Same air, which smells of, my seething urn
Same quest of life – not to live, die, yet yearn
Same mirror hurls back, dirty angel’s face
Same voice ricochets, thru splintered space

Same streaks on palms, which just don’t change
Same streets, stray out there, still seem so strange
Same mob in bazaars, yelling, buying, selling, lies
Same slut called life, seeking price of compromise

Same heart, mind and soul, a loser’s prided belongings
Same search is pain, a sum of life’s longings
Same sequel is life, a dry run, to death
Better be dead now, than die down, with each breath

© 2016 Vikas Chandra