Who smokes, my bread, in frankincense
As, lust of life, hungers, for fear
Existence, in death, seeks substance
Of the faith, whose cross, it’s left, to bear!
In the cradle, of a, mournful morn
Who resurrects, the myth, of hope
To chase, a conquest, that was born
As a, ‘prophecy’, in my, horoscope!
When your shadow, is your, only kin
Savor, your, social solitude
To be, yourself, is your, only sin
When you refuse, to be, a platitude!
Estranged, in a herd, of cold shoulders
Beyond pilgrimage, is, this castaway
Where the barrier, between, two worlds, blurs
I Walk, My Funeral, Every Day!
© 2021 Vikas Chandra