“How long, shall last, this mad stupor?
You lay me bare, on a stale promise”
She grudged, drunken with, angst’s liquor
As I yoked her, to canvas, of my bliss!

“Had it not, been you, I’d still be fine
There are many, out there, who’d sell their souls
A whore’s, worth more, in this maestro’s shrine
Than your, brazen being, raking o’er old coals”!

She stumbled down, from my pedestal
And I saw, first time, her furrowed façade
As she gaped, in my eyes, truth unravel
The lies, of a legend’s, rodomontade!

And a faith evolved, between two stains
Like the sin, of a solemn, rhapsody
I fill new hues, in her veins, but the fact remains
I Hate My Muse, My Muse Hates Me!

© 2018 Vikas Chandra