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

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Aftermath

And the blood leaks down your throat
Down my spine
Onto your clothes
Like the memories
We often hold on to.
And tears curve your heart
And leave distances in veins
Miles of trenches apart.
And the vortex of color

All hazy and twany
Blinded by the shades
Of your echo,
Slides off the spines
Onto my ribcage.
Crackling fire, with dragons in your breath
And gurgle in your throat
Spitting venom with each reply.

And your talons for fingers 
Caress my sides
Tracing marks of despair
Inside.
Claws of nails 
Shred you apart.
Yet you stand intact.
Not shedding off 
The flimsy gown of human skin
You claim to wear all around.

And the folds of being human
Seem to hold loose pockets of skin
Dripping down the ragged breath.
The dip of knuckles
With clotted crimson 
Seeping down from your kisses.

Eyes blackened 
And skin ashen,
Crumbling to pieces
Hanging together with gums
Long chewed
And flavourless.

Chipping away at your bones
Snow pellets submerge my tiles
And no distinction
Between the marbles and bones
Could now fathom my eyes.

I sit down
Beside your sunken soul
And my fingers 
Try to search for yours.
As the skin mounted atop
Flutters away.
Dandelions in open air.

The talons have wept red
And eyes give way
To shade of night.
Cheeks
Hollowed out 
Carry the bodies of dead tears
In caskets 
Sunken deep.

And your body
Slowly giving off the odor
Of hopelessness
Slides down
Hitting the marble
With a gruff.

Solemn dexterity
And whisp of apathy
Resounds my voice
And words scruff 
Leave my lips.
Raining down
Upon your battered ears
And matted 
Eyelashes.

Having brewed that denial
With constant rebelion
From truth.
Mixed occasionally 
With false charm 
And decieving smile
Concocting 
The wine
You were working years upon.

Hatred and jealousy 
That appeared as soothing balms
On the greens of your wounds.
Often mistaken
For bites of pure bliss
Now sweetened 
The wine till it scalded your throat ajar.

Maybe besmeared
In your dillusions,
You forgot the phrases
The wise men uttered.
Poison only tastes like poison,
Once you have swallowed it.

Copyright Akanksha Krishnatre

Boarding the wrong train.

Boarding the wrong train.

Sitting down, facing front
I see squabbling kids moving around
And their mother with her voice,
As hoarse as a broken gramophone
Drones on and on.
She talks of bills to pay,
And relatives to meet.
She mentions someone,
I forget the name next instant.
And No!
She isn’t talking to me.
In her voice, hard with years,
Bossy with struggle,
Angry with fate.
Drabbles upon unaware
Talking to her boys,
Who remain uninterested
And her words die upon empty air.

Rocking back and forth
And back again,
Her hands wrapped around her own knees,
Like ivy wrapped around dandelion seeds.
That will fall apart
The moment she leaves her limbs
To move on their own accord.
So the greasy girl,
With two piglets of hair
Loosely packed in bands,
Hugs her body closer to herself.
Protecting
Shielding
Just like the old and lanky
Crooked gardener,
Looking after his prized petunias.
She looks at me with distrust
From the back of her lashes,
I never knew that observing someone
With all your hate focused
From your irises was plausible.
And I too look again at the girl,
Not with fear or hate
Just curiosity mingled with my breath.

I swipe my gaze,
From passenger to passenger,
And the con artist with eyes blue
Smirks at me.
His hands grasping the threads
I am sure only I cannot see.
For he seems to tug at some strings
Which I do not feel,
Yet I feel a tug,
A pull
At the organ
Beating behind my fleshy breast
Tucked among lungs
Cajoled amidst ribs.
He smirks and plays on and on,
On his instrument
Deceitful like the winter snow,
Cold to feel
And harsh to touch.

The gates of the train are shut,
Closed with a sign mentioned so.
But such signs are found at stores,
But why again,
So many boards claim open or close?
I look out of windows
My breath leaving behind
My marks of life upon the glass.
It is white outside,
Like fallen cotton threads
Binding a Web,
Blinding me
To look beyond the cabin
I currently home.

Wait! What madness.
That I know cannot happen.
So, stop right there,
No. Do not go further,
Someone, stop the train,
Halt!
Pull the chains,
Oh! Please!
Somebody,
Bang! Bang!
The windows won’t buzz.
Knock! Knock!
No one opens the door.

Wait!
Oh Sir, thank you for asking,
Yes I would want to leave.
Oh Sir! Now don’t laugh and walk away.”

And he left too.
Like every last person
That I have stopped and asked,
Demanded,
Cried,
And ordered
To let me out.
And they are staring,
With creepy Cheshire smile,
The boggy full of people
That I am now wary of.

It is closer to midnight now,
And the mother with her boys,
She is still droning on and on
Telling tales of wolves and blood hounds.
And that girl with bleak eyes,
And limbs that are ready to leave her behind,
Is still clutching at her heart,
Ready to pull apart,
Shreds of her soul,
Which I doubt she holds.
I am fearful for my sanity.

Oh! What madness.
What fury!
Stop the train!
Halt the tracks!
Pull the chain!
Blow the whistle,
For the gates to crack.

And the con artist,
He simply smirks
Now passing me the strings,
I strings I said I cannot see.
He passes those threads
Again to me,
And I unaware of the threads,
Not visible,
Cut my fingers
And bleed.

Oh crimson blood
Trickles down my arm,
And I hear a lapping sound.
The boys with the mother
Are upon myself
Like blood hounds
Closing,
Warming up to their prey.

Oh! What madness.
I stand only to be pulled down again,
I look at my reflection
On the mirror hanging
Down by the blackened door,
And a ghastly, pale
Devoid of blood and fuel
Reflects back,
Smiling with no resemblence
To what I know of me.

With hands shaky,
I pull upon my sleeves
And gently touch my chapped lips,
Looking at my reflection
With hollow bags under her eyes.
One hand to my bosom,
Listening to my hammering heart.
And the other in my pockets,
Searching for the door pass.

And when my fingers gently,
Brush against a paper slip.
Finally found,
I look at the ticket
With trepidation,
Oh Lord! I boarded the wrong train.

©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