Whose
one half of the soul conceived the dynamite,
Another
sought peace in quest for any nob(e)l(e);
Whose
one half realized fi(us)sion to color the sky,
To capture descend of melted gold sheathing flesh in open.
Who
sniffed the gunpowder on the naked roads,
To
conquer volcanoes down erupted with jocund scents;
Whose
hands wrenched with every shot, for few seconds,
To
engulf its caress in the belt for more strength.
Who
guided the projectiles to reach, before his Juliet die,
With
the birds of prey flying on psychedelic distillations;
Who
wished for alacritous metal heads on streets,
Armored,
rivers on its chest, but flying above ravens.
Alas,
there ain’t another ending of poetic tragic romances,
As
one cuts once, another bit by bit, such bombs & roses. J
© Pranav Chaturvedi 2023