An Accusal

Poetess, none will read your words, your metaphors
Staunched emotions , sprayed graphitti
What can your poems give me?
Where are the words in your poetry?
Daylight insults me in your poems;
Night, it follows suit.
And I come back, retracing
The ink stained room of yours
After two decades of surfacing
along a debauched circumference.
But, do I ever see you lingering?
If it is not so,
If your voice fails ,
To resurrect my own
My shimmering fingers will not
Even touch your words.
Your poems surround you
And there lies their death.