Love hurts more, than its, stings on skin
Someone’s, seminal, burden, in my heart
Where love ends, begin, sacraments of sin
“Lust ain’t, any art!” Ask this, naked Mozart!
What brings, manhood, to a, whore’s doorstep
Does a, spent wife, taste, like, cold stale rice
Why a, cross of faith, and fear, they schlep
To the shop, of a sinner, who sells, sweet lies!
Musing mankind, is a, brittle breed
Suits, my monologue, of, stark satires
This, oldest profession, is the creed
Of the dialogue, of, dark desires!
Each morning, bears, new me, from, night’s womb
A chaste dream, with, holy hymen
To be deflowered, to a, debauched tomb
In The, Blood Monsoon, Of The, Midnight Moon!
© 2021 Vikas Chandra
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