Which riot, broke out, in the, cuckoo’s heart
To spill, that spell, of rhapsody
Did a throbbing, in her soul, impart
Shades of blue, to her, bleeding spree!

The legends of, crestfallen men
Who made a faith, of a manic streak
God bless, their trysts, with pain, amen!
Their wounds, still bleed, fine arts’ mystique!

How else, would words, bare thoughts’ instinct
If not sewn, with that, basic strand
Which makes, their creed, so indistinct
Like phantom’s feet, on a trail, of sand!

Be it, heart of a psalm, soul of melancholy
Both echo yarns, of that, human stain
Could more, be a, sublime travesty –
Why Poesy Blooms In The Farms Of Pain!

© 2018 Vikas Chandra