Blame it on, ‘unsought happenstance’
And never, the chicanery, of instincts
How else, would bloom, surrogate romance
Beyond her heart, and hearth’s precincts!
On her bathroom mirror, that lass emerged
Who had been, what she thought, she was
Albeit, sans the man, on whom she splurged
A love no more, than a heart’s, lost cause!
Oh! He smells of youth, Oh! He smells of musk
Not that slog’s stale sweat, which befits disgrace
He irons, my wrinkles, dawn to dusk
Whilst I gamble, my sanctum, in lust’s rat-race!
Was it ever about, who’s won, what’s lost!
By woman, a whore’s discovery!
But damn it was, worth a virtue’s cost!
The Sweet Sin, Of Adultery!
© 2018 Vikas Chandra