Gulp down, those gallons, of your, purebred bile
That christened, your cherished, nemeses
Do see them off, to their, life’s last mile
Lest they resurrect, on your, fear’s largess!
An age, you spent, and a rage, spent you
With a, wounded soul, and a, riddled heart
Your skin, still squirms, with that, hate’s tattoo
Since you, chose to be, vain Bonaparte!
Stop fostering them, in your, spite’s cradle
Who left you, to smolder, to kiss their, placid grave
Dolled up, in black, to the, white cathedral
To vow, to God “I remain, your faithful slave”!
You too, shall fade, in this, holy grime
Where the faith, you sow, is the hope, that grows
Vanquish, piety’s prejudice, and pity’s paradigm
Do Grace, The Funerals, Of Your Foes!
© 2020 Vikas Chandra
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