The one, which made, a man, his sins
The one, man made, with fog, and sand
Neither histories die, nor his, epic begins
Sways edge, to edge, by moment’s strand!
There ain’t, his glory, in those mobs
Nor solace, where to, farm his thoughts
But in, that heart, that yearns and throbs
Like a, rosary’s thread, tied up, in knots!
To be, a slave, to life’s, banal chores
Or king, of his, forsaken yard
An enigma, of these, metaphors
Is the, lone truth of, crestfallen bard!
Yet dwells, endures, to die, one day
In unslept eyes, that dream, unseen
Man is, a myth, destined to stray
Between Two Worlds, Two Worlds’ Between!
© 2019 Vikas Chandra