My Sin-Sermons On Their Wrinkled Beds

When I, turn stale, may ever, come that day
With the sin, that seasons, in my heart
For a, new savannah, a bale, of hay, I stray
On that, seminal search, two worlds apart!

Nor they, turn old, my muses, of sin
Whom bare, to the bone, my conjectures
Wherein, nights never end, nor the, days begin
Our trysts, lost amidst, moral caricatures!

Whilst they, serve cold flesh, on obtuse tray
I resurrect, spent myth, of my intellect
It ain’t, just lust, but instincts’ melee
Where two, estranged enigmas, intersect!

Beyond orgies, of skin, strewn o’er, love stings
My rosary, of love, lay torn, to shreds
I’m a, solitary Sin-saint, lost in, surrogate flings
My Sin-Sermons, On Their, Wrinkled Beds!

© 2020 Vikas Chandra

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