‘Emily Hale, 41, Brimmer Street …’
Was it, address of, his redemption
Or truly, an unbowed, bard’s defeat
Who disavowed, his love, with preemption!
Beyond being, sadist lover’s, muse
His smitten, petite, poetic pawn
For a, ‘moral’, married man’s, taboos
She was, a spinster, worth, to be, forgone!
Whilst, he burnt, hers; she cherished, his
On jaundiced shards, world watches, in vain
Beyond, those trysts, rare, quixotic kiss
Unrequited love, in remains, of pain!
Thus, Eliot did, what was, convenient
With an, unwed wife, in a, mistress’ glove
Ooze out, pain, of his, sacrament
His stain, unspent, Lost Letters, Of Love!
© 2020 Vikas Chandra
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