Alas, your dispatches, Theodore, now smell of gore
And dust, of war’s faith, that lays, manhood very bare
As, you choose, to be consumed, more and more
In the rage, outrage, of the pilgrimage, called fear!

How hope, has learnt, to reap despair
From the farm, I nurture, in my heart
More than, love, death seems, debonair
When Bonaparte, devours, Mozart!

That passion, of our, very first kiss
Feels, more than, a lie, a malicious myth
As I, see you, sinking in, hate’s abyss
To be, martyred, for, state’s, vain megalith!

I’m, your widow, or your wife, I’m, in a fix
Whilst, in between, sways, my destiny
Whose glory, bleeds on, whose crucifix
Lest, This Be, Your Last, Letter To Me!

© 2022 Vikas Chandra