Hardik Vaidya (26 Dec 1969, yet to kick the bucket. / Mahuva, Gujarat, India.)
Do you have to be so cruel?
Let me write with my blood on your soft bosom,
Not out of a macabre sense of chivalry,
Neither out of a defeated sense of doom.
But from a sense of being useful, in time.
Time that flows, meaningless between the beats of my rotten heart,
And your spring in utter bloom.
My beloved, my darling, I never wished to derobe the,
At least in the filthy eye of eternity,
Yes I wished and still wish to gold your nude bosom,
In the clasps of my rough hands
As an eagle would want to hold its prey in its talons so soft,
Not to eat you,
Not to defeat-her you,
But to hold you in the crown of my singular desire,
To say aloud, I held you, once, does not matter,
But for the once that summated to my entirety,
Blithely being, soul of the morn, angle of the dawn,
Do not any more be cruel.
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