I called her, half, an intellectual
No match, for an, artful alchemist
Yet, the spur, of my, radical ritual
Is the, worthy vixen, of my, wordy tryst!

With moments, drenched in, day’s despair
You heave, in sight, to a, bard’s delight
Such debonair, is, faith’s, funeral of fear
In the throes, of, throbs of twilight!

She twirls, o’er, my, broken globlets
In her, cabaret, of, my joi de vivre
With her blood, I shade, my silhouttes
She’s always, the awe, in my oeuvre!

Her virtue, is, virtual, not real
Just as, her sin is, my mean thought
For the glory, that, transcends surreal
Am I, The Muse, Of, My Harlot!

© 2023 Vikas Chandra