Poems sound like wind chimes. Beautiful poems, ending each line with words which are like relatives to each other. Poems which are as synchronised and composed as a ballerina. But my poem here, does not rhym. The question is why?
How do you expect me to greet you every morning with coffee, newspaper and a smile on my face? How secure are you with your ownership over me? Built me a castle, where you feast lavishly on me every night.
Don’t get me wrong, my dear. I sometimes forget that it’s just your ‘passionate and fierce love’. It seems, it’s in my flesh and blood, to be incapable of returning your fervor.
I settle the bed every morning, when you groom your masculinity. I look at the rumpled sheet, they look like the veins revolting against my skin, when you make me ‘your’s’.
I have known ways to quit but I decided to stay. Woman’s nurturing and ardent love, you may say.
I have stayed for those little feet, runny nose and stammering nursery rhymes. She is growing now, soon will turn to be a lady. But not ‘lady-like’. She will know ways to quit and stand unshakable even when a man’s ‘passion’ will try to dissolve her.
I will tell her that love is a poem which is not always supposed to rhym. Her mother tried to sing and find a rythm to her words, only to be accepted by a beast.
But she will write poems of witches burning scavengers, not with rhyming, but with words of-consent.