Her Wrinkled Bed

A tale scribbled, on stale linen
A letter left, by a lovelorn night
To not be read, yet once again
In the lap of pain, bleeding twilight!

Those whimpers, reaping dust of time
Those giggles, spent in quest of bliss
Those half-kissed goblets, sins sublime
She spilled away, with a caustic kiss!

A blasé flesh, a breathing fest
A frog, pinned down, for dissection
On a battlefield, a vain contest
Could sweet be sin, as redemption!

Blood, sweat and tears, and semen smears
And a million yearnings, which lay dead
In her tomb of, shame, raptures, despairs
Strewn love’s souvenirs, on Her Wrinkled Bed!

© 2018 Vikas Chandra

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