What spurs, the soul, of the, somber moor
Not lone nightingale, cooing notes, forlorn
Two passions, tangled in, l’amour
To fulfill, chasms of hearts, lovelorn!
Where, yearnings end, there throbbings, begin
In the throes, of spring, love sows, fall’s sin
O’er bare wasteland, when skin, snogs skin
Then orgies, of bliss, melt, moor’s chagrin!
Their moans, their sighs, sound like, distant rain;
Mingled scents, of their sweats, passion’s petrichor
When lust, spurts sin, from love’s, virtuous vein
Love seems, no more than, lust’s metaphor!
What’s left behind; rustling relics, of a tryst
In the, love’s conquest, passion’s profound, stain
Between, poise of soul, and heart’s heist
Sin is, the alchemist, When New Is Pain!
© 2020 Vikas Chandra
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