All unfeigned relationships,
Commence, in celestial efflorescence.
But, passion unreciprocated-
Is like an exanimate corpse,
(vehemently 'lifeless' 'cause there are throbbing dead bodies in the present world!)
A fish out of water,
A sky without Sun,
A night without stars,
An orphan with no fortune.
All relations, mightn't be deemed towards eternity,
But only some, on echt, veritable grounds-
Jaunt towards eonian fraternity.
To be the adept beginning,
Is proved by the modern-world,
To take the helm of counterfeit.
"No offense", best allies-
Germinated, life mates,
This isn't the Victorian era prolonged,
A long lost Shakespearean whim,
Nevertheless fancies a few, apiece,
Persistent remnants of the currently debarred-
Somewhere, we all have read,
"Love is a hollow sham. Life's a farce!"
That's almost nigh today,
When mostly heartless automatons-
Commune, indigent and insolvent,
In emotions. Mostly, the debated counterparts-
Who eruditely know each other,
Who bask a sapid walk together,
Who confide, and entrust-
Their inscrutable mysteries, to each other,
And, colossally more to go on,
Towards making the perfect match.
But still, one's proffer to other,
Is an effete disposition.
The other will indisputably twitch-
The unsought, abominable nerve,
Assaying to accentuate the better one's-
Impuissant frailties, and to bash it-
With all vigour.
Of the one who inflicted anguish-
Over the inauspicious one who still-
Haven't subdued his inner conflicts,
Grounded on the savage, flimflam sting,
Of petty coquetry, or the hollow, vacuous,
Sham of unrequited love.
Guys, to plunge yourself in-
Might match an epic ballad's restating.
But, 21st century Rhapsodies,
Should be based on protagonists,
Who easily convalesce,
Wiping off ineffective dust from his torso,
Who care no more for lost sands,
Cause a lustrous horizon of Life,
And 'cause'Robert Frost' had written invaluable verse,
For generations to emulate.