Parched Peaches, At My Door


vikas chandra

Once more brought June, that monsoon’s spell
When her peaches mellowed, and fell to ground
A lass of twelve, was all, my ‘Mademoiselle’
Beyond that rainy dusk, never ever, to be found

“First peaches are, just for you Sir; my orchard’s Lord”
Her face lit up, like a Christmas tree, at her master’s delight
“Ain’t you that nearly-done woman, which I can afford…?
Drenched in peachy scents, you’re the sweet sin of twilight!”

My trembling touch, on her shivering white frock
A stare and smirk, sank a splintered smile
“Ah! You’re a woman almost, in the dock”
“Sir…! Spare my girl and woman, to reconcile…”

The orgy did ensue, o’er crimsoned frock, and riotous squeals
Then a deafening silence, sat, amidst two seditious souls
“How’s Virgin Mary deflowered, on a girl’s relics, what a woman feels?”
“Don’t ravish me twice, raking over old coals; pay your manhood’s tolls”

And she…

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