Fickle minded genius,
Burns the last of the pieces,
Of his ever dismal life,
Counting by the minutes,
The ashes into smoldering heat,
Reflect the pain and the scars,
Face reflects a long lived journey,
Empty soul, without love,
Fickle minded genius,
Differentiates himself,
From the rest of the rotten crowd,
With brains placed on a mantel piece,
Intelligence lost within the crowd,
Loud are the verses,
Of the pope and the mistress,
Truth clad within the white satin,
Blood trickles down the thigh,
And the fickle minded genius,
Creates weapons of mass destruction,
Hatred of never finding love forever,
Burns the last of the pieces,
A child within suffocates and dies,
And the fickle minded genius,
Pulls the trigger,
Thousand lives undistinguished,
No religion, no caste, no creed,
No borders enveloping, no prejudices,
No hatred for each other, neither love,
All lay above the ground,
With arms and feet dangling,
Reflecting the same pain,
Colour of the blood remains consistent,
No Hindu, no Muslim,
And the fickle minded genius,
Fulfills the revenge,
The days he has been through,
The path he was forced to,
The learning’s embedded inside, carved,
Work of the fickle minded genius,
No religion, no caste, no creed,
Death is a procedure,
Proceedings need to be undertaken,
Lights a match stick,
Reflecting pain on his scarred face,
And the fickle minded genius,
Burns the last of the pieces,
Of his ever dismal life.
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