The Things We do for Love.

As I dip the quill
In your blood,
Swirling the thick liquid
In circles.
Writing poetries,
That exist on the undertones of flesh.
Branding the heart,
Cushioned with the proddings of my pen.
In those fearfully bright lit eyes,
Which hold the abyss
And void with reflecting light.
I sway the rose,
The lilies,
And the wolfsbane
In your crimson fuel,
Ablaze.

I swirl and sway with the rhythm,
Of your still pumping heart
Which gives the music,
That once was the reason to breathe.
Now a necessity to live.

So I encase it
In a big black box,
With locks and keys guarded.
More strongly than
The heart of Davy Jones. 
Upon your fiery lips,
I place the cool petals,
That once were adored
By your kisses.

And mirrors in your bosom,
To hold me infinitely
There somewhere.
Where once a heart lied
Now lies a hollow socket,
Reeking of affection and adoration.

So that heart cased in cage,
And those lilies stand in a vase
Dripping drop by drop,
The tales of life.
Slowly unweaving the silk threads
That once bound you and me.

So the thick petals of roses,
Dipped in the elixir of your blood
Are now curled with heat of your cheeks.
They have lost their tenderness,
Changing to the hollow human
That you now are left.
So I place them upon your picture
Relishing the metaphor.

On the slaughter counter
Lies your pious body.
No longer the chest moves
Up and down.
No longer a fire burns in eyes
And the socket has lost a heart.
But still in those loathed images
You stand beautiful.
Oh so beautiful.
I stand back and look
At the masterpiece.
My Magnum opus.
You.
On the counter with the pale face reflected
In the blue lights of ovens flame.
Ready to embrace you,
Adore you in its flames. 
To hold you down,
To lull you to sleep.
A sleep where dreams
Are afraid to enter
In the fear of being marked forever.

So you my Masterpiece,
are like a lost painting of Picasso,
That I finally completed.

(c) Akanksha Krishnatre.

Does it Truly Matter?

Does it truly matter
If your eyes water’d once
Or are always moist.
Does it matter 
If your eyes are foreign to tears
Or dry forever.
Does it truly matter
If your heart broke once
Or has countless pieces to pick.
Does it matter
If your heart is intact
Or dripping innocence coated love.
Does it truly matter
If you fell for him once
Or a few thousand times.
Does it matter
That you knew him to be trouble
Or simply cushioned your fall.
I ask what does it matter
At the end?
What truly matters
Is that you survived.
Remained a warrior
Through what life threw at you.
You picked up the mess,
Life made you
And sorted peace
Out of pure blazing chaos.
At the end what matters
Is you.
Simply 
Always and Forever
You.

(c) Akanksha Krishnatre.

Ever wonder?

Do you ever wonder
What would happen if
Your dreams were a precap
To the future.
A trailor to the movie
That would just happen
In the halls
Of minds and reality.
What would happen
If the souls adorning
Your nightmares came walking
The ominous street.
How frightening it would be
To suddenly
Out of the blue
Meet a human
To already have met
Him in a dream
Or a nightmare.
As you walked away from him
Leaving him.
Screaming on top
Of his lungs
You left him bound in chains.
You would hear 
The clanging and tinkling
Of chains long before
They are bound to appear.
So you will just wait
For the clocks to tick.
How enchanting it would be
To know what is to happen
How powerful yet
How powerless you would feel
To know that you 
Though knowing of the future
Have no strength to change it.
And so when those dreams
Will knock gently
At your door.
You would open your eyelids,
Simply gazing
At the whitewashed ceiling
Wondering,
If the devils will enter soon.

(c) Akanksha Kriahnatre.

Heaven and Hell, Horatio.

The mosaic of moments
Wrapped in verdant,
Dance through the eternal 
muse of life.
So, Oh! Horatio.
There is no such thing
As happiness.
It’s a fleeting illusion
Created by a little less pain.
Ah! Take my words
My friend.
Suffering too isn’t real,
It is a choice between
Surviving with dignity
Or living with pain.
Who ever proclaim’d
life is easy,
Is a fool to be wary of.
For life is nothing
If not enough twisted
Into coils of wants and longing.
What is good with people
In this world
Oft gets incinerated
and what lives long
Is deeds that no corpse
Succumbs to have committed.
So Horatio, 
Heed my words my friend 
As I tell you to run,
Save your skin
While you truly can.
Because once you get
Embroiled in these endless
Threads of life.
Coming out unscathed
With no scars to tell your tale
Stand impossible.
So be saved my lord
While safety is possible.
So don’t survive,
Live my lord
While living isn’t a dream.
Ah! Love my lord
Until love isn’t tainted.
But heed my words
Don’t search for bliss
For it can’t be found.
And remember 
That world no longer
Is what it seems.
For there are more 
Things in heaven and hell 
Horatio
Then could ever be
Dreamt in your philosophy.

Akanksha Krishnatre

World no longer a stage.

Oh! Thou Sir need to understand.
World is no longer a stage,
No longer people come
Simply to play their part.
Birth and death,
Remain no longer personified.
Oh Sir! It breaks the heart
Of a poor lady like me.
To beware Thou 
Of the honourless deeds
And changes that now have striv’d.
World is a ball, Sir
A giant masquerade ball.
Thrown by the people
whether nobler by fate
Or inhumane by deeds
Who am I to presume or judge?
Ah! Such a magnificent feast
They promote
I wonder what beast do they serve
What elagance in the menu,
Whether it is loathing or greed.

Sir! In this ball
Entrances aren’t birth
And slayings do not mean exile.
The permit to enter
Has now criteria forlorn
It depends
Sometimes on skin,
Ah! Sometimes on land
And the worst,
That a illiterate lady
From the times of yore
Condemns the most,
Is permit based on gender.

The people with 
Fate aiding them
Enter in this feast
Flairing and floundering
Their Etravagant carriages
Fit for a royal deport.

Sir! Good lord! 
I am eternaly grateful
That royalty no longer
Runs in the blood.
Or take my words
Every man would be macbeth
Playing with a never ending tempest.
But the fire
The longing
The unyielding lust
For gold remain unscathed.

And so in these masquerades
People come adorned in masks.
Masks with frills and lace 
Caressing their plummy cheeks
And golden threads keeping
Their lies together.

Sir! World is ball
Where people come to dance
Entrance isn’t easy
But exits are forced upon.
Ah! Thou would find the world 
Tragic to the bones.
So people pair up quickly
With no parts to play
Just a partner to twirl around.
No Romeo is found
And Iago fills its part.
Sir, love no longer nourishes the soul
But now is an emotion
So abstract,
So hollow,
So shallow in nature,
That I a poor, poor lady
Would have theQueen’s jewels 
More easily found.

Ah! The summers joy
Has lost its warmth.
Winters are colder
In this place with,
Hearts adorned with ice
And laced with shards.

But in this Ball
The reality My Sir is this;
There are 7 Billion faces,
7 Billion dancers
But 14 Billion masks and
14 Billion dances.

(c) Akanksha Krishnatre.

Yes, I am ashamed.

I am ashamed
for the satire that is Humanity.
You claim to care
You claim to love
You claim to respect.
But it all ends in tumbled mess
Of broken promises.
The country where each religion
Worships A goddess.
The world where Durga and Mary
Hold their dignified stature.
The universe where bows
To touch their feet.
Crosses their hearts
By their name,
And echos in their blessing.

Yes I am ashamed,
A girl of mere sixteen.
Still unable to comprehend,
That how in this world?
That how in her country? 
Is a girl molested.
How the demons of humanity
Do not feel ashamed
Touching her, abusing her, molesting her.
Do they forget
By their each breath of pleasure
That they too have a sister.
That they were nurtured in the womb of a female,
Their dignified mother.
How can they forget?
That a time will come,
When they will father a pearl of a daughter.

I am ashamed of politicians,
When they question
The very story of the victim.
And then with burning face 
And fiery eyes I ask them
Would they have dare question
If it was their daughter, their sister
Who was unmasked out of her dignity.

I a girl far away,
Am shameful of these people.
How come you forget,
That the girl you are looking at
Is a sister for a brother
Is a precious daughter to her father.
She is a mother 
of the generation to come.
How come you omit this
Reality from your heart is above me.
How come your hands don’t tremble
And you not feel guilty
When such thoughts
Merely cross your mind.
You demons, are above me.

Being a girl even I am shameful.
How come tears don’t prickle your eyes?
The innocent girl in her zenith,
Robbed of her modesty,
Humiliated for the mere fun of it.
Shame on you,
For not bring petrified.

I am adored, from the moment,
when I was born,
For my father I am his life.
I am the colour of my brothers canvas.
Just like me
Just like every girl for her family.
The girl you commented on,
The girl you molested
Too is the life of her family
She is the rainbow
For her siblings.
How dare you
Take away her colours?
How dare you extinguish,
The flame, that was her?

I feel ashamed for the society,
Which is all about power,
Domination and position.
In this hell of a world 
The devils crawl like mouses in the sewer,
Too much and filthy,
Carraying plague of their mentality and broken morals.

Hey girl! I do not feel pity for you.
For I know like a phoenix
You will rise ,
From the ashes of your past. 
The scars will be a reminder,
Of the stories to come
Of your survival, your victory 
And remember
the battle has just begun.

Akanksha Krishnatre

On the shameful act of mass molestation on the eve of new year in bengalore.  

Cosmos 

The cosmos

Is a livid reflection

Of a child just born.

With its unearthly beauty

reflected in the orbs,

Of the untainted.


The gleaming stars,

In the blaze of dusky twilight

Are like the light,

reflecting in the eyes.

Vividly bent and twisted

A mosaic of time.


It is humongous ,

yet so small.

It has the shine

Of the toothless smile,

With moist pink lips

And plummy cheeks of child.


The cosmos

Is a wreaking vortex 

Like the child grown up

With tantrums in beauty

And a denial  

For a tranquil limit.


It is the turmoil of change,

Moving on its own accord

Answerable to none.

It resonates,

When the resonance can’t be heard

And shouts shattering silence.


It is passionate,

The milky galaxy of allure .

Like the salvation 

Of an artist young.

The one with a gaping hole

And nothing to fill the void.


The cosmos

But in reality is the old man,

Lounging in the wooden chair.

Talking of things,

He has survived

And the apocalypse seen.


It is the serenity of white 

The hair on the head half bald.

As he talks of the mistakes he saw

And the one he made.

Like the galaxy narrating

Of asteroids and the breaking shade.


It is in the wisdom

That the years had to offer,

No one has survived the cosmos

as no saw the old man,

From birth to death

Each counting last breath.

Akanksha Krishnatre