“Intellect, is best, baptized by, sin”
His thought, who had cherished, this harlot
Still spills out, an age, from his, cold coffin
Whose words, live on, … whom, world forgot!

I hear it, smell it, feel it all
That bottle, of his, borrowed wine
To my, holy hell, his swanky stroll
Where a, broke bard, finds, his vanity’s shrine!

What a poet, found, in a prostitute
A, beautiful reason, to forget
The pursuit, of, a destitute
Chasing, stray smoke, of a, spent cigarette!

His funeral, was our, final tryst
It made, this whore, his misery’s, metaphor
The wife, and widow, of, an alchemist
Whose Whispers, Still, Knock, On My Door!

© 2023 Vikas Chandra