Could truth be more, blatant as that
Which basks bare, on a time-worn face?
A child is man, of the deeds, he begat
Or the sins, he earned, in life’s long chase!

Whose mercy, seek his, puckered lips
Whose psalms, sighs out, his weary soul
A man is a measure, of the blood, he drips
On his existence – a mean hyperbole!

The days he lost, for dreams of nights
O’er profit-loss, of a squandered life
Now a pilgrim, flies, nirvana’s kites
In fiery blues, with a faith, so rife!

What’s left of him, but a, lost conquest?
A soul estranged, from heart’s furor
Done with a life, her last bequest
He Gazes At, The Heaven’s Door!

© 2018 Vikas Chandra