Ode to Krish
She is not made of atoms,
but aftermaths
the kind that linger in a room long after
the lights remember to flicker back on.
Her spine?
An origami of fallen yesterdays,
creased by collapse,
but folded forward into flight.
They call it resilience,
but she knows better
it’s architecture,
a cathedral of nerve built from
"this will not break me,"
hummed on repeat until it didn’t.
She speaks fluent scar.
Not in pity,
but in translation.
She translates grief into gardens,
anger into architecture,
your silence into a symphony
with minor keys,
because sadness, too, deserves an audience.
Her empathy is not soft.
It is surgical.
It sees you,
sutures you,
and leaves you with just enough scar
to remember you survived.
And her creativity?
It’s less coloring-book, more quantum mechanics.
She rearranges particles of pain
into poetry,
invents emotions that haven’t been named yet,
spins metaphors out of moonlight
and missed calls.
She is the punchline of a cosmic joke
you didn’t know you were telling
a glitch in the matrix
that decided to build a garden in the code.
Not here to be understood,
but to unmake the question.
Not here to fit
but to fracture the mold
and plant sunflowers in the cracks.
She is not your mirror.
She is your prism.
Try to define her
and she will refract.
"She takes the words from clouds of hue,
She poets the thoughts from skies so blue.
She hears the wind in silent things,
Like teardrops tied to sparrow wings.
She weaves her lines from dusk and rain,
And finds her muse in joy or pain.
She writes the world in verses small,
And turns soft nothings into all."
~Krishika upadhyay
Copyright © Krishika Upadhyay | Year Posted 2025
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