It’s not, just men, who play, in gore
Beyond, menstrual rites, deflowered dreams
Women, know it more, than a metaphor
Bull, tastes it, not the matador
It’s the, creed of blood, every soul redeems!

My love ‘is’, not an, exception
Or shall, I change, the ‘is’, to ‘was’
You brought, and left, a deception
In the sacrament, of love, alas!

Baptized in, spring’s sin; blood of fall
With a smile, immersed in, insolence
You left, love’s graffiti, on my wall
“Our trysts, have reached, inconsequence!”

You didn’t, make love, nor you, had cold tea
As I waited, for weeks, in my, negligee
“Thank God! Keeps ain’t wives, wives ain’t keeps”
Is the pain, you sowed, that my heart, still reaps!

It was to be, our last, half a tryst
That left, love’s, broken rhapsody
The bleeding tomb, of my, heart’s heist
The Blood-Orchids, You Brought, For Me!

© 2021 Vikas Chandra