A Whore Hoots On… Thru The Dead Of Night


When fear, conjures up, birth of faith
And the God, who’s lighthouse, of lost souls
Every shadow, slithers, like a, possessed wraith
Life seems, to squirm, o’er time’s, smoldering coals!

Manic moon, measures up to, man’s sin-fief
As it, leaves behind, warm tears, of mist
Every stain, plays out, beyond, thought’s belief
In the faith, and fear’s, intriguing tryst!

Upturned whole day, the bats, which swayed
Now, Satanic saints, who stray, and prey
On a myriad, of beds, etherized souls, laid
With dreams, of hope; nightmares’ melee!

One Sin-Shop, dares to bare, to the bone
Enigma of, sin-pilgrims’, plight
Between, fear’s milestone, and, faith’s tombstone
A Whore Hoots On… Thru The Dead Of Night!

© 2020 Vikas Chandra

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