He forgot, or was it, thought-out!
To spare, no stanza, for that day
When world, stands still, to mourn, his clout
With a fitting tribute, not a, vacuous wordplay!
The sacraments, of the, ritualized world
Can’t see, him beyond, his remembrance
Last rite, is satire, so absurd
It forsakes, a man, to obsolescence!
“Why yearn, to last, beyond that lie
When a, form returns, to its elements
Resonates, if true, legacy of a sigh
Beyond mortal world, that man invents!
Lay me, to rest, by my, cedar tree
To be, one with, my épistémè
No psalm, reckons, my rhapsody
For A Poet Is His Own Requiem!”
© 2018 Vikas Chandra