Tempestuous Contemplation

Thru' the silent caves inside my heart,

A tempest ruffles by.

Creating ripples of some weird art,

It makes me mourn too dry.

What sin hath stung, my ardent soul?

What evil bides in me?

I behold all lacklustre swathes a whole;

Frothing as a sea.

Time! Tis time perhaps that hurled me off,

Down the gradient stones. 

Into the abyss; my soul was doffed,

And unheard were my moans.

Tis a world of rapacious men,

Money says all that's sweet.

Poetries serves no bread and grain,

Tis otiose on barren streets.

They seek more humbleness a word, 

Poetries are all fake.

Thou write a heart of blood in the sword,

Tis yet no savoury cake.

Thy tears; thy pain: let drizzle by,

No man shall feel the same.

Gangrenes oozing from the dropsical sty,

Is all a laughter game.

Thou beseech men for a tinge of love,

Nay men shall reciprocate.

They praise the one from the skies above,

Bragging a blossoming fate.

Hither I too with benumbed a mind,

Gawk at the chasing race.

No worth to rhymes for humankind,

Tis just a moment of grace.

Yet I write; scribble words,

Poetry serves me air.

I am humble as the little birds,

But scared of deliberate despair.

Let me live my world of faith,

Let me write my soul. 

Few more days and then shall death,

Cease my mundane role.