The Things We do for Love.

‚ÄčAs 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.