What’s left of you, to consummate
And of me, but, intriguing urge
Which dies, each day, to germinate
New phoenix, of my sensual surge!
Had it been hormones, nothing else
Could passion, subsist on substances
No! It’s the sublime sin, which spells
Spent yearnings, for new romances!
It’s the legacy, of original sin
Or misery, of forbidden fruit
No God, as dear, as love for skin
How blessed, the faith, of a prostitute!
Why’s night, an orgy of deceit
Day, death of a longing’s giveaway
To lampoon man’s, lasting defeat
That Itch Returns Everyday!
© 2017 Vikas Chandra