That yearning, bane, why call it, “heart”
Which runs, a riot, in, soul’s silent street
If not, for pain, who’d know, Mozart
Ain’t love, no more than, sweet conceit!

Who strays, all day, searching shadow
In the, herd of, estranged existence
Would never find, or, ever know
The truth, of fear, in faith’s pretense!

Lost in, an endless. cul-de-sac
With the misery, of a, dreary dream
At the maze, of past, present, looks back
What was, ever lost, left to redeem!

Baptized, by pain, is, every vein
At death’s, altar, life’s, lasting rite
An inferno, every day, profane
A River Bleeds, All Thru, The Night!

© 2021 Vikas Chandra