Past persists, in the fist, of a child
Like the myths, he grappled, starry-eyed
He seems, to have, thus far reconciled
To the fact – ‘Truth shan’t, ever be, glorified’!

Why’s truth’s millstone, too hard, to bear
What’s wrong, with the faith, our mothers, once taught
From cradle, to grave, we live, with that fear-
“Truth is, that pain, we never forgot!”

From social rites, to blood-kinships
We trade, in just, one currency
Is it heart, or mind, or blasé lips
From where, drips out, sweet sin’s rhapsody!

Opium of soul, illusion of existence
Are not, those truths, which we, dare not say
Essence, of the sense, of senescence
Are The Lies, We Tell Ourselves, Each Day!

© 2019 Vikas Chandra