Readership Poem by Hardik Vaidya

My poems are my woman,
She comes to me, on volition.
Without my permission.
Wearing what I want her to,
Dousing her self with a perfume,
That makes me go mad,
She walks the cat walk,
Off jumps the cat,
Onto my lap,
Does what she wants,
Every second of my night and morn,
The day is not for me, I am dead and she knows it for free.
What do I care, for the statistics of eyes, who read my poems,
Who loved my poems, when my woman was making love to me,
Despite her not wanting to be,
Drawn by sheer power,
Of my leaking desire,
Like gravity from one universe to another,
And she being a woman,
A human,
Was forced to heed the call,
And come to my soul,
To suck me in, her life's swing,
Despite her fuming brow,
Her fleshy Cherry biting lips,
In her I belong, and she swallows my song,
In her it goes, and drowns it not,
It mates with her breath,
And she reverberates with the Mortzart gone mad.