Desire

Its fragments among
The mirrored facade,
Of the mind that lies within.
Its glory lost in
Illusory potence,
That succumbs to mortal sin.

Its divinity bound
By a sheltered cause,
That will never conspire again.
Its mortal bliss,
A mere dream until,
It concedes to its own sweet pain.

Its words a mirage,
Unto the facets
Of the fickle human mind.
Its power is a will
Of its very own:
A pagan wish unto my kind.

Its form unseen
By most, but felt
As a burning, searing fire.
It is my bane;
My only foe -
This curse that is desire.

By,
Nikhil Menon
IV CSE B