The Specatator's Equations Poem by Susmit Panda

Whose damned chamber is this?
Strict-edged pebbles, born to be strewn
On Earth's vain, ungreeted chalice,
Lie on the floor like a glorified boon,
Carved on the tiles some sculpture to assume,
To be quite sure, a madman's room!

Whose damned walls are these?
Dead leaves, dead to be crushed,
Are ribboned throughout with ease;
Clammy muds against their bricks are brushed
That are worth the slaps of broom,
To be quite sure, a vagabond's room!

Whose damned deeds are these?
Acidic needles, for burrowing robes of prince,
Have plucked out plumes from cushion-lees;
And one ebonite hammer, for pushing pins,
Was tasked at his brain, I presume!
To be still sure, a fool's room!

On Earth such is his task?
To distill use out of that's disuse?
On Earth such is earning, I ask?
To steer what's of use to misuse?
But whose strides I hear from behind me zoom -
….I discover this is the child's room!