Not for him, a common man’s, last yard
But a legacy, enveloped in, royal protocols
In the Buckingham, lies, a spent canard
Whose graffiti, fades, on its, colonial walls!
Was playing, second fiddle, ever, such a faith
For a half-man, who kissed, his best-half’s feet
Thru the, corridors of power, who lingered, like a wraith
In his wife’s conceit, cherished, his sweet defeat!
Between bride’s dream, and, a widow’s requiem
She’s a tomb, of her, colonial delusions
What’s left, for the queen, but a love, to redeem
For a man, who flouted, manhood’s dimensions!
From the, last World War, to her, first family-feud
She always felt, his hand, in her glove
He lent, her faith, his fortitude
Who Chose, To Be, A Slave, Of His Love!
© 2021 Vikas Chandra