The Poem

If I were that poem,

Mona Lisa by Leonardo Da Vinci

I am,

I am the perfect poem.

Don’t ask and,

Don’t question.

If you have the gall,

then you may.

I have enough courtesy,

to end your dismay.

After all, This is

The perfect poem.

I am loved,

loved by every soul.

From the wicked witches of the west,

to knights and kings of north —

Evil haunted eyes,

sit under my lashes,

The calluses withholding swords,

discover more with me than ashes.

All beg in pleasurable plague,

beg for a couplet or two —

“Oh, mighty right of Apollo,

Won’t you spare us a line, too?”

I am hated,

hated by every verse.

Revolutionary and the liberals,

terrible and the gibbers.

Yes, I notice the hostile —

Like finger of Cain, they

only point to Abel, each time.

I feel nothing but pity,

For I can only be mine.

Their tries, tries and tries,

all are in fall.

But is it my fault?

I am complete, after all.

I am accepted,

Accepted by all.

I follow all rules,

I represent all laws.

Test me by the meter,

by the book or the teacher.

Every single eye will look at

you in amaze.

How is this plausible?

Well, even I can’t tell,

But I must follow all, or

I might dwell.

And if you ask —

“If a day,

None looks your way.”

Not in this world.

Not in this life.

After all, I am maid.

I am made, the perfect poem.