Why call them, not, who may, not come!
Like an, errant spring, in the throes, of fall
How strewn, are you, thru my, soul’s prism
Pure substance, of my, pain’s recall!
Those rituals, of trysts, and farewells
These psalms, of sin, twilight’s despairs
The only faith, for us, infidels
Is the sacrament, of blood, and tears!
It ain’t light-year, but an age, we lost
In measuring pain, with time’s, malice
Could dearer, be, a yearning’s cost
Than to, love to death, your nemesis!
With reveries, stood, where once, we
Now tower, tombs of, dalliances
Thru broken frenzies, what we, see
© 2018 Vikas Chandra