Could love, be a, heartless satire
Your insolence, my rhapsody!
That you lit, to me, a blooming pyre
Solemn sin, of love, heart’s hara-kiri!

A dozen breasts, skinned out , as though
Impaled on a thorn, of sweet malice
When I strew, and sleep on them, I know
That pain is love, and love ain’t bliss!

A million sores, of love resent
Why pain be, passion’s cherished worth!
And to hurt, a heart, love’s sacrament
A sublime sin, with a timeless mirth!

Bigger martyr who, than the love, that bleeds
Myriad blushes, of a sin’s delight
To sow in heart, its fury’s seeds
Your Roses, Smoldered, Thru My Night!

© 2018 Vikas Chandra