Who wanders, thru, cold, cobbled street
From dawn, to dusk, and dusk, to dawn
Town’s, graffitied walls, taunt him, “Deadbeat –
A mythical relic, of an age, bygone!”

He strews, impressions, all thru, the way
From the, broken rosary, of his, thoughts
And strings expressions, by the end, of day
In a conjecture, tied up, in knots!

Why spare, a moment, to explain
To the world, which forgot, poetry
The only worth, of panache, is pain
If you ain’t, in the, know-all coterie!

There’s mesmerism, still, in his, profound flair…
Who farms, faith and fear, in his soul, rundown
With his, veiled satire, he lays, our ethos, bare
A Little Known, Poet, Of My Town!

© 2020 Vikas Chandra