Gloomy Sunday

A sin azure, how it, stains the sky
With the blood, of my last, morning’s sun
I hear, a million, widows cry
As I sniff, my last drop, of semen!

The trysts, of living, cadavers died
For a day, o’er, extended sleep
Yet again, their etherized, souls sighed
“Your banality, reeks, many miles deep”!

I gaze again, at ‘little men’
Toil with, fresh milk, stale newspapers
How the twain, define our, beings’ ken
We resurrect, with, dead conjectures!

No more, heart’s wish, but my soul’s verdict
Why I kiss, to death, a death, each day
A destiny’s game, a life’s convict!
Calls it a day, on a Gloomy Sunday!

© 2018 Vikas Chandra

One comment

Leave a Reply