Not a lizard, perished, at the hinge, of my door
It’s my stench, that fled, my cul-de-sac
O’er mosaiced, gore, my death’s, metaphor
Is satire, to this, mean world’s, payback!
Milk, o’er doormat, has, soured to curd
Like my, land’s cold-blood, lost love, of my kin
Piled papers, at my door, carry, not a, single word
About a wraith, who lived, out of sin!
What a Great State, gained, if her ethos, lost
An age, condemned, to oblivion
Who brave, quietly, ethnic holocaust
Choosing honor, in death, o’er, rationed poison!!
I’m the cherished, “Last Supper”, of those
Maggots, who bared me, to the bone
My nirvana’s, conquest, still echoes
The Fear, Of Dying, All Alone!
© 2020 Vikas Chandra