That Kafka Dies Still Every Day

Hasn’t, dried up, that malice, as yet
In the chalice, of his, legacy
Lest we, forget that, fallen prophet
Who loathed, to death, his prophecy!

Every thought spills, when, substance of shame
To bless, words in, sacrament of sin
In the shadow, of a, flickering flame
Wary hand, writes dirge, in the, mind’s coffin!

“What will, world, think of, my attempt
Ain’t sin, my cynical, existence!”
Who write, literature, of contempt
Are doomed, to drown, in inconsequence!

The age, of a, bohemian expression
Is the, lasting pain, of that castaway
To fear, lost who, his conviction
That Kafka, Dies Still, Every Day!

© 2021 Vikas Chandra

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