Till we ain’t done, with this derision
Yet one more time, on a wrinkled bed
Of the substance, of our obsession
For the lie, we call our love, instead!

We cherish, the squelch, in the monsoon mud
Ignore the soul, of petrichor
That yearning, which once, bathed our blood
Was a dream adrift, mere metaphor!

Bedizened to death, the same stale meat
O’er stupor served, with a plastic smile
Those beasts are dead, who made ends meet
With clit’s deceit, and bliss penile!

See the misery, of two, virgin souls
Love’s irony swathed, in a velvet glove
How torn apart, two unquenched wholes
In the rituals, of this Half-made Love!

© 2017 Vikas Chandra