How many shards, make you relic
Of kismet, and her wily ways
God never seems, so angelic
Than when, we find, He’s a fib always!
Why expect, Him to resurrect
You, from the ashes, of your poise
When breakdown, is no object
To sell, oneself, to His pious ploys!
It was, it is, shall ever be
That sleeping seed, in a soul astir
Of fortitude, not destiny
To rebuild man, from fall’s stupor!
Who cares, but you, for dreams galore?
Which kindle passion, in your core
To spur a soul; stir a form of clay
Dare your fears each day, Come What May!
© 2017 Vikas Chandra