No qualm, no angst, no sweet regret
Love-Saint, won’t sin, in his pilgrimage
Whilst your lavenders, wilted, to violet
Yet in fall, bloom with, purple outrage!
I chase thoughts, in my, vain pursuit
Since 40, knocked my, intellect’s door
Sans menses, to you, forbidden fruit
Presents sin’s, guilt-free, metaphor!
Could inertia be, ever, as deader
As you, and me, on our, wrinkled bed
Whilst you yearn, for the, rising Lucifer
I dare Satan, to raise, his ugly head!
How desire, evolved to, a spent despair
Frenzied firefly, to a, silent dove
Ain’t love, our faith, and lust, our fear
Whose cross, we bear, Since We, Last Made Love!
© 2021 Vikas Chandra