Monsters in closet.

Skeletons are in closet,
And coffins are empty.
People have sockets for faces,
And eyes look back in the head.
Veins no longer run beneath skin
and the heart turns green from red.
People look pale,
With no colours adorning the face.
And the monster that thrives
Slowly in their thoughts,
Smiles with lips twisted
In a mosaic of emotions,
Colours and hatred.
Born out of rage
Nurtured in the fire of shame.
The monster
Oh! The green eye’d monster,
That is present here
In this moment.
He thrives in skeletons
That you so beautifully,
Have adorned in your closed closets.
So before the lock is broken,
Lay down the bones
Clean them,
Nourish them,
And make sure to dig a grave
So deep, so hollow, so shallow
That in that labyrinth
Of darkness,
The skeletons are buried forever.
Remember to fill the hole
With lies so concretely woven,
And stories cemented truly
That not even you can find
A loophole to bring the bones back.
Go check your skeletons ,
Born out of the coloured demon
If they have truly,
Broken down into fragments 
That can be laid,
And cleansed,
and sworn into secrecy.
Because once a skeleton is found,
Remember! No one will listen
To your tales of devastation.
Struggling with their own bones,
They will make you go down
In fear of being found,
With the charge of murder,
That they too have committed
Each day.

©krishnatre

Phases

​Did you notice
When only ombre silence
Greeted your hellos?
Or did you notice
When after days at end of sulking
You turned to complain again
And was met with air instead?
When was it
That you finally realized
That as the moon through its phases,
Changes into nothingness
From crescendos of Light,
The same happened in real life?

She was a different kind of moon,
Or she was not the moon itself,
You never know.
A paradox,
Predictable in her unpredictability.
The kind of moon that she was, 
She never intended to hold on to the stars.
Never claimed that the sky was hers,
(Although it truly belonged to her)
and was ready to share her home.

She was like an old metaphor,
Furnishing every poets poetry,
An untold story sealed in a few words.
So when was it
That you truly realised
That the poem you were so intent
On breaking apart,
On taking the strings of words
And stretching them until
The syllabals lost their meaning,
Was not that easy to decipher.

With her flaws, her scars,
Her battle wounds,
All she held onto as lessons,
That made her hard to fall
For uncharted,
Unanswered,
Uninviting
Sombre silence.

Did you notice,
That the keeper was begone
When the monsters climbed your walls?
Or did you notice,
That the healer had left weary,
When your wounds remained open,
Untended and green?
When was it?

Honour clad in robes of truth
With bejeweled promises upon it.
She wore her words like silk
To the last shaky breath.
Always and Forever 
She had said.
Always and forever
It would be.

When was it,
That you noticed?
Oh wait! With your eyes closed still,
With shards of blindfold within
You still are unknown.
( Ah it will be a blow,
To the good’ol heart like yours)
Ah! Sweetheart,
Like the moon with its phases
She will be an eclipse soon.
And you would search for her
Among the sky,
Beyond the horizon
Failing to find her true form. 
And unlike the moon,
She won’t come back again
To light your weary nights
And reward a lost hope.

Chipping away at her heart,
Asphyxiating her attempts to renew
Hope, laughter and joy.
So you will notice
How fumbling towards the crescent,
She moves to mumble
A sad and soppy
Ode of a Goodbye.

©krishnatre