By Yashas Acharya
Towards a cold and early morn
Medieval furnace summoned from
A cease-fire slumber through the night
Now out of the dark; unto the light!
With a head of mirk and a heady glum,
Hove you with serpent eyes of scorn.
Tumultuously bathe and brush
The blinding bright doth bother you
As Kellogg pursues cowmilk, sop
Upon your marble countertop
Your potted tulips drown in dew
Beshrew that iridescent thrush
May this day come to pass your pray
And noon comes and goes as striven
A luncheon with your peers at work
Six figures as a lazy clerk
And still looms you with repose-riven
While frowning at optimists, gay
But yonder lies a graying eve
Where street light shadows prance about
And the Sun-God's concubine smiles
As she siphons his light with wiles
Of dark and dim stood mighty stout
For it is time to mourn, to grieve
This eleventh hour I cherish
When heroes fail and dreamers wake
Clouds for sky and a will devoid
Less for more and a heart destroyed
Oh how I sashay with the stake
And slow dance till the day I perish
In imperfections I find bliss
Till I retreat from whence I woke
I saw the light, that it was ill
Like the early morn's birdcall - shrill
And once I may not once more stoke
The dying fire for a wanton kiss
Your time here will have passed as mine
We gaze before the one divine