Her Pink Stockings, swing by my recalls
Just a man was me, nor a woman yet she
Like the souls, summed up, of many lost falls
Yet they smelt of a woman, on a lovelorn spree
If fetish be some ritual, they were my creed
How they ran from her toes, to the sanctum of my lust
Fine grave of nylon, where my heart, lay buried
Was my love, a martyr, to bite her dust?
What she hid in them, to never ever reveal
Were the fancies laid bare, of a kindled man!
Not as pink, as her blush, my Achilles’ heel
Not as spick and span, when her menses began
Her Pink Stockings, too, went down with her
By the darkest cedar, left me, but, to yearn
Was she ever, beyond, my brazen pleasure?
To fill into them, shall she, never return!
© 2016 Vikas Chandra