Who bore, in me, that juggernaut
How an ounce, of soul, raged an inferno!
Ever since, a platitude, forgot
That mind is a jail, of the thoughts, we know!
How forlorn, is that, pilgrimage
When your shadow, calls you – “a conjecture”!
And the world, an enduring, outrage
Which shuns, to death, a discoverer!
Amid pain of, banal existence;
Stark truth, of, intellectual vacuum!
Blazes on, the flame, of insolence
With the faith, of truth, its sublime gloom!
Is a fist of truth, worth an, age of pain!
How a rebel, redeems, his nativity!
No faith, could be, as much profane
As The Trauma Of Creativity!
© 2018 Vikas Chandra