I am that Poem

I am that poem.

No, not the one you chose to forcefully pen down
to please mindless critiques who used to get into your mind;
(for all men desire a mind… almost all)
Nor the one where words get addicted,
forcing morphine down morphemes’ throats.

I wont call the sun the king of heaven,
Nor the smiling moon �" the prince of nights.
Nor do I paint the sky with a RainyBow.
(Allegories and metaphors come and go
with the winds of time)

I don’t talk of Love or Life or God or the Cosmos ergo, non-ergodic!
I’m not cryptic for I don’t want your thoughts to turn gymnastic.
And ensuing this time, I’m sans dulcet rhythm or rhyme.
(They are the ornaments of other ladies)
I am a different species.
I don’t want to be heard or sung or even read,
much less praised.

O Poet! I just want to be,
I wish you forget this world’s woes or dues
and come home each eve into my arms,
and make love to me. Just me.

I am such as a stoic unrequited love,
that keeps your wake each night.
I’m that poem, you are yet to write.