From the, broken asylum, of my soul
The morn, feels warm, past the, cold lone nights
As I sit, at the sill, left to, console
The tomb, of my heart, riddled with love-bites!
Their faith, in flesh, is my, only bread
Faux Lords, of Love, who buy, my fear
Strewn, all o’er, my trampled bed
Conjectures, of, endless nightmare!
To be, no one, in a, nothing world
Lost in, darkest fringe, of civilization
Why womankind, never resents, to be hurled
Into, mankind’s, oldest profession!
My Madam flings, few dimes, at my door
The “Moral World’s”, cost of, “Forbidden Fruit”
Night is, a, naked metaphor
In The, Morning Psalm, Of A Prostitute!
© 2020 Vikas Chandra
Reblogged this on vikas chandra.