How could fine-art be, Satan’s bread!
And a bard’s despair, its only means
To bleed as though, it ever bled
The souls of, blasphemed libertines!
Why pain and joy, are one the same
To a heart, that flirts with travesties!
Why epics of pain, ever put to shame
Sham joy, and all its fallacies!
Would ‘Macbeth’ still be, cherished if!
Rendered in, scant nuances of joy
Passion’s chore is, all the more stiff
Hand-holding, Satan’s blue-eyed boy!
Why art is a yearning, nothing else
The purpose, of a path profane
Why joy’s each lie, pain’s truth dispels
O Poesy, Why Thy Soul Is Pain!
© 2017 Vikas Chandra