What had, you been, but a, will-o’-the-wisp
The smog, that choked, my existence
If my name, is a pun, you love to lisp
You ain’t, my dream, beyond pretense!
Is your call, each night, not dalliance
O’er heartless, nerve of, fiber optics!
When you measure, my tomb, of nonchalance
With your guile of, sinful histrionics!
There is, no soul, in a telephone call
Just a veil, of voice, to hide substance!
Better is, dumb graffiti, on the wall
Which flaunts, boldly, its insolence!
Done with, the din, of debauchery
I’ve severed, today that, bloodless vein
Thru which, you served, love’s mockery
Better is, a tryst, laden with pain!
You better find out, new bazaar, for your voice
Since my phone, won’t ring, to your lust’s invite
Do orgy, with your, sins’ decoys
If I Don’t Return Your Call Tonight…!
© 2018 Vikas Chandra