“What yarn is, bliss, how is it, spun
With sin’s spindle, and, rosary-thread!”
Let love, be a poison, of passion
Lest lust, devour me, shred by shred!”

She mused, entangled, in her yarn
In the, forlorn farm of, touch-me-nots
A hymen, ain’t, as hard, to darn
As a, sinful tear, in a, virgin’s thoughts!

Hadn’t felt, of spring, coming of age
But the rumble, of that, blood-monsoon
With her, fertile fear, and faith’s outrage
Butterfly didn’t dare, to breach, her cocoon!

Had smelt, yearnings of, Valentine’s day
Like the, lasting sigh, of his, last nosegay;
Clitoral bane’s, inherent, pain;
Enigma, of love’s, seminal stain!

Her menopause, was, splendor’s funeral
Love’s graffiti, fading, on life’s wall
A pilgrim lost, in her, youth’s rubble
A Spinster, In The, Throes Of Fall!

© 2021 Vikas Chandra