How they smell; those blood-drenched petticoats!
Hung out to dry, in monsoon sunshine
When it’s time to reap, her cherished wild oats
Why she dreads to be, her lust’s concubine!

A chalice, Maker made, to brim with allure
Yet yearn forever, to be spent, in those trysts
Which play in her heart, behind a façade demure
Prospects of sweet sin, soul scarcely resists!

If deceit be thy creed, and pride thy flair
How then you, be a woman, paradigm of shame?
When your being is all, but, a modest affair
‘Modesty’ ain’t you, nor the name, of your game!

I see her bare, in her sultry smile
Knotting, unknotting blouse, like a tangled lore
Lingering next door, every once in a while
With guiles galore, Every Woman’s An Unspent Whore!

© 2017 Vikas Chandra