Neon Lights at Window Sill



Neon lights
Feed my fire.
And darkness still askew.
On lookout
From terrified
Demons
That still caress my veins
With licks 
Of thorns and dew.
Imprints I carry
Of lighted
Green
Ombre death
In pulsing beats of breath.
I still kiss 
The roses, 
You left poisen laden
At my window sill.
At my death
The petals will fall
And thorns
Grow
Each day.
Nails will break 
And hair strewn
With glow
Of poison red.
Forgot the few
Warmth
You gave,
As my soul leaked away;
And I still do
Flow
And drain my flesh
No different
From my crimson
Case.
But neon lights
In the heart of green
Are still at
My window sill.
Waiting
And dying
And falling
Unseen.

Copyright Akanksha Krishnatre

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Recollections

Splattered rainbows
Adorn knuckles, with glint of broken starlight
Kissing past veins.
The places where,
The strangers fingers brushed past 
In a crowded hallway
And air smelled as dungeons.

The galaxies my palms
Fidget to cajole,
Pinpoint the shine of moon
The hurried handshake left
With a warmth glowing at its root.

The fingertips 
Hazel and lilace
Prints of colors that never go together,
Left at my shoulder
From the last instance
Some traveller held me;
Unbeknowest 
To my weary frame;
As he struggled for grip.

The handprint
Of a hasty goodbye
Mumbled beneath breath
Itched at times.
Trying hard at times
To remind me of its owner.
A shy passenger 
That had travelled beside me.

Lips curled into a smile
At people
I had no recollection of sharing a moment with
And eyebrows betrayed my trust
At my own body
As they canvassed the crowd of familliar facades.

And the flesh and bone
I wear often upon my soul.
Have memories of people
I don’t remember faces for.

It often 
Strikes me as odd
 As I wonder
Quite often
How many people
Have I looked at all my life
And never actually seen.


 © copyright Akanksha Krishnatre

On Contrast In Existence.

Blended contrasts
Like those between your lips and eyes
Carried out on the blank canvas
Stretching past galaxies of confusion.
Your steps light
Faint hue of ombre
At dusk casted the blue void.

The pale freckles of gold
Exhaled at moments 
Demons adrift your lungs.
The starrynight 
With its enticing colors
A canvas of emotions
Painted past your windowsill.

Your grace
The narrator of a masterpiece
Madman breathed unto canvas.
Born out of saudade
And merak of celestial moments.

The search for yellow paint
Often ended in heartbreak
And organs 
Painted a faint colour of illness.
Closed doors you held
With keys long digested 
Behind your burning throat.

You read the letter he wrote
“The sadness will never go away”
Your lips trace the truth
Your bones often forget,
Casted in plasters
From the wordings of letter
That bid adieu.

The curls of lips
Those yours.
Send a fervour among lovers.
The one you know about
And the sighs unknown to you.

The painter tastes wine
In to the marrow of its bones.
As its eyes take you in
Drunk at the perfection
So within reach
Weighing dark desires
The replica of its orbs.

Naming your smile
More mystifying than Monalisa 
And eyes as deep
As oceans go.
Brushes fanned in welcome
Of perfection,
Your vinci stands afloat.

Your voice
No more than a bubble box
Adorned in comic scripts
With resolutions of loyality
As that of zeus,
Forgotten sometimes.

Shards of shattered mirrors
Form the entire of organs
Reflecting
The grace of stick figurine
You drown inside.

Intricate patterns
Veins carved into your flesh,
Fingers toiled with hair.
Those the replica
Of the finest china,
The grails your blood had kissed.

The colours a sordid reflection
Of your own ups and downs
Celebrated and touched
At occasions
That only blissful tears ever saw.

The soft sounds
Fading into nothingness
As your tongue
Traced your lips.
No different the way
Sculptor had traced
Patterns my eyes lie upon.

Chattering of teeth
With unfocused eyes
Breathing heavily
Uneasiness seeping into sound.

With likeness to echos
Of the teacup
Slipping slowly through 
Fragile fingers
With a clang to the wooden floor.

Bony knuckles
Clasp unto the marble bust
With an even strength.
Michelangelo reborn
And you his David,
Perfection in every form.

The edges of your ribs,
A blurry vision
Seeping into reality
Illusions created by delusional hands
The prints of a child
Who still dreams of wonder land.

You are a masterpiece
I murmur
As I paint flesh and bone
Worded 
In colors that can speak
But monochrome.

And I will keep bleeding
Your form against pages
Until veins run dry
And ink betrays its course.

For darling
Though a Magnum opus
You are a still a work in progress.

Copyright Akanksha Krishnatre

Where We Are From, There is No Sun. 

​Where we are from,
there is no sun.
But quotation grey clouds,
the cloak I wear each morning.
Dyed with the colours of my mouth
shut tight with unjust kisses.
And I wear the cloaks
tied with taut strings
around my neck.
It is a conspiracy,
you see,
The don’t want me to speak
For I shout,
Standing off the cliff
Hoping to fill the void
with some kind of some noise,
Noise with colours 
That bleed pages upon pages of tragedies. 

For I scream
In Hope 
That one solemn day
My words will echo back to people.
Make them believe
that even though
Where we are from,
There is no sun,
yet some people
are hoping to light a bulb.

I wear the cloak
of the colour that shines in dead eyes.
People, You see
no longer see.
They have hollow sockets
Where eternity was once captured.
And Irises hazel, Brown, tawny and grey.
have no emotions.
But the ups and downs 
of denial and death.

War is a game
like monopoly.
And I am still craving for the words to end it.
I don’t want to win
Because victory seldom means Peace
and House never means home.
And where we are from,
there is no sun.

Yet I stand
in persuit of lost cities.
That once we’re carved on maps,
with quills that hoped for a future.
Where there was a break among clouds
and filtered ochre sunlight caressed my brows.
Cities, lost like baby teeth
leaving behind in hope
for a better foundation
But in truth,
left behind the bleeding gums of Humanity.

And maybe when I say,
that I put blame.
I am not seeking innocence
for my own tainted soul.
Because the legacy gifted upon our tongue
tastes bitter like blood
and It has been years since
I was born
And I can still taste the iron
driving nails in my mouth.
Reminding me
of my traditions, cultures and heritage,
which I no longer wish to follow.
For often when you fall into the sea,
It is not pearls that you seek,
but survival.

And decades we have tasted metal.
It is time,
that the broken dandelion seeds
are searched for again.
And an orchard made of despair,
With Ivy molded upon it of hope.

Because I still dream
that when I tell
the leaders of tomorrow 
there would be lights seeping through
milky white clouds.

And the teacup that shattered long ago,
would have come back once for all,
and universe would contract to give place,
to those that never fit in. 
Searching for identity,
among frozen photographs pasted upon walls.
Those with dignity held high
when questioned 
and gender specified
Because male and female defines nothing
But genitalia.

In that time
there would be shelter for,
those that stand unaware and breathing poison.
And death holding their palms
would be saved.
And there would be light in eyes 
and hope in smiles, 
no different from a newborns.

I am still standing on the cliff,
Talking to the void.
Please
Don’t call me crazy.
For where we are from,
there is no sun.

And I will tell stories
of darkness, of despair,
when light will finally be lighted
and fire burnt in every home.
Because House never means home
and victory seldom means peace.

I would teach them,
the children of light ,
that this generation
crushed and cursed 
with a hope still
gave birth to beauties
in the womb of beast.
Because where we were from,
there was no sun.
But,
there is light
 today.
©krishnatre