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Aditri Kashyap Poem
My innocent crimes transcend into sinful mistakes,
While yours roam in circles to stay the same,
Pangs of conscience rip my melting ventricles apart,
When metal-cold claws depart out of your mouth,
And my viscera learns to keep itself together,
When you say your metallic jaggedness was ‘as light as a feather’,
And now, the claw that mauled my heart,roams about my body,
Sometimes in my throat, otherwise in my eyes,
And changes their colour into a red gaudery,
Watery tears flush from my eyes,
While you only notice how fast they sublime,
And so, I wish my tears were of blood instead,
Just so you could see the guilt that relentlessly stabs my head,
But I know it’s of no use,
And I know my efforts are futile,
For my innocent crimes transcend into sinful mistakes,
While yours roam in circles to stay the same.
Copyright © Aditri Kashyap | Year Posted 2026
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Aditri Kashyap Poem
There’s an empty canvas above my head,
Where in place of a fan, lies a horse instead,
It breaks free from a self-loathing shed,
At times, when lips silenced words from being said.
Runs across the wall, the horse
But without glee, despite being free, without any remorse,
Numbly it sprints in a white landscape,
For it to understand its purpose is beyond vague.
As it gallops, it leaves a trail of self-identity behind,
Unaware of the absence of a sound mind,
It doesn’t take long for years to pass from specks of time,
And the canvas remains an art piece, still confined.
Displeased by my efforts, I try to find an eraser,
I sigh as I realise that fate was never in my favour,
With no escape from what I’ve just done,
I prepare myself for the final outcome.
So, a cowardly canvas is above my head,
But in place of a horse lies a fan instead,
It is attached to a rope?—?compassionately holding my head,
At last, I die as a muse of a cowardly death.
Copyright © Aditri Kashyap | Year Posted 2026
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Aditri Kashyap Poem
autumn births a fawn sombre
wide streets chase orange ombre
crease a smile shoveling leaves-
buries a sad old hombre
Copyright © Aditri Kashyap | Year Posted 2026
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Aditri Kashyap Poem
In the rust drain,
She sweeps memories,
Revolting white froth,
Effervescent with fast time
and alkaline bruises
too slow to catch up.
On rustic terracotta,
She walks with pricked feet,
That foam, it recurs in tides
and spreads all over
like spilt milk on spoilt food.
And she shoves her bruises,
The nostalgic nightmares
through the drain,
She’ll cleanse her rustic terracotta
But she doesn’t know,
The foam will come again.
Copyright © Aditri Kashyap | Year Posted 2026
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Aditri Kashyap Poem
Look at that wee little boy,
splashing puddles in an Indian July,
Look at his little legs go, unaware
of the splotches,
landing like affronting fireballs
On the pillars of an Indian mansion.
The extolled pillars are too hollow,
to support the masses of the concrete above
Stains and graffiti reveal its appeal,
So the owner requests some white paint.
and their far-reaching hands paint each other's backs
But July is a good month to verify ostensible ambiguities
It's harsh rain may chip off even the enamel of coatings
and may disclose a blemished design
That would certainly displease its visitors
The wee little boy, however,
splashes a puddle of iridescent water,
water so clear, the visitors see their sharp reflections-
of a student testing their limits,
as both time and hope fall from an hourglass
of a woman dipped in the elixir of her 'pious' duties,
duties which then drown her in the sewage of immortal duties,
of a man who can never be called one, because he doesn't exist
because others care more about whatever is between his legs,
of a mother clenching her children tightly against their tender bones,
tender bones that feed themselves from the smell of chapatis in the shop next
of a father who shows off his pearly white smile to his wife,
while the rusted mirror on the tottering tiles tells that he just lost his job
of a wee little broken boy, manually scavenging and scavenging for food
This Indian July,
More wee little children splash puddles
on the pillars of an Indian mansion,
which they suspect is a kuccha hut,
The more they play relentlessly, after being tired,
I wonder if the mansion can bear all the rain and splashes.
Copyright © Aditri Kashyap | Year Posted 2026
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