Dispossessed, of, delusions, I
May, never write, another word
Since, I found, a perfect alibi
“No more, I yearn, to be, ever heard!”

Having embraced, this, inertia
I stare, no more, at my, paralyzed pen
What bled, like, blessed enigma
Has it, dried out, in my, veins, since when!

Is this, a redemption, from the sin
Of my, every, empty expression
I’ve stowed, my books, in my coffin
In the, funeral of, my pent passion!

Bearing thru, intellectual, strife
Is the, paradox of, a poet’s life

Not the, nightingale, who thorned, her heart
Nor zephyr, spent in, springtide’s spree
Just a, lovelorn, mourning-dove, not Mozart
Who Waits, To Hear, My Poetry!

© 2022 Vikas Chandra