By Upasana Kashyap
Devoid of oscillations, when enquired she, of the bare-footed clock walkers, “Oh manipulator of time, when shall I mature and be licensed to wander along the isles of my living room? When would widen my potted basement, and I function better to bare sneaking through? Crippled are my legs from obtaining the distanced, as affordable seems mere my long-sighted vision, that accrue!”
To which the pendulums rung-in of chastised gospels, “Pretty lady, you’re so piously ladylike to the walls, claustrophobic of menstrual blood.”
“As vehemently scare they, thy valor, from scrutinizing ordeals of distempering them red-blooded all over.”
She appealed to where the carpets laid sluggish of jollity, “Why shan’t the living curtains unravel its window’s sanctity, for I so indiscreet to unclad my garments at shower-clocks of mine, and woody windows’, why remain so knotted to adamantine?”
Carpets whistle along their cave-like lips, “Dear lady of angelic resemblance, bestowed by the good guardians of solemnity, the curtains fear if you hinge around to garner a strangers’ eyeballs, and may thee suffer pedophilic necromancy or be subject to their diabolic erotica, that hoaxes little beauties, therefore, thee might grow into bald or breathless!”
“Oh! Dear cupboard of scrimmage, fancied of topsy-turvy around thy fabric scuffles, why shan’t I be appareled in gowns of brimming glitters, so brittle, and drizzle in floors of living room?” She asked.
“But, because it glitters, so brittle and thou might sizzle and drizzle, but it’s bitter to settle in garbs so mighty, and vain it shall be to carry those to left or righty, so you shall be laced in the frolic of this little knee-highdress, as exuberant it is of holy beads and idyllic sonnets,” Casket Cupboards creak jubilantly to respond.
She plunged to probe what conceals the cosmetics, why her cheeks crave those blushes, why non-perfumed her powder, that sniffles of lipstick if hold grudges like sour cider -“Why mirror, you so silvery, why height of mine can’t reach thee, what enamored my siblings, why filling voids, I repent, for freely they flee?”
“Mirroring their shadows have pestered my pretty sheets, and reflect thou’st replica of inversion, shall vouch me for a thousand enigmatic weeds.”
“Impaired of glee, or had paralysis spellbound my polishes, for your beauty advocates the acme of the utmost grandeur, how ought I reflect feign, or cherish less in surreal reminisces thee procure?” the dressing mirror sulkily declined her wishes.
Treading to the forefront, she grabbed another for accountability. “You’re deadly! Oh cushions, you weigh me my buttocks, you sleep through my weightage, and throughout convene my comforts, what excuse might please thee to scrape out my probes, as all that I fantasized had been frenzied across in vehement robes. I dreamt at your cradling upland, pretty sure you eavesdropped by, my imaginations, and now shan’t you sway deniably, to whilst I scaffold thee in my interrogative possessions!”
“Reprimanded at my every erratic hoarse, withered-off had I personated verbs, and vocally stunted evolved my muscles, for I to no reason or rationality do posses the thunder of deceiving by thy question, Oh Scintilla,” distraught with her childish temper, spoke up the cushion.
“So, declared under the Holy Cross, you loathsome treasure, answer to why shall I be laid placated at the grounds of the floor, for ironic feels my brother’s sleeping postures, that bend along the bedded grooms and growls?”
“Oh, lady, you so delicate, so fragile, why beds of high pompous hills, may trample thy sleep, for thee, so pageant-like? Floor is bound to infinite and no thresholds may have its limits, canonized, for I so seamless, held arms to guard thy fall-off, what beds may never swear to vitalize…Secured thee feel good, or lavished cease thy eye, discretion is at its epithet, choose sans being shy!” responded the Cushion of disheveled anxiety.
“Oh understand, I understand how selfish I sound, for comprehending the living spaces, I often seem self-bound. Why siblings, my fatherly figure, do preside over solemnity, why I fall to thrifted sights that immune me of spatial validity? It’s scrumptious, it’s no gallantry, it’s no chivalry, it’s all contemptuous!”
“Solace, O little prophetess, solace thee meditate in. We could code down that tangles thy rib of crabsticks, but free thee of mindless scuffles; serenity may seek, as I pray, for thy soul in abundance,” uttered the furniture.
Drowned in abrupt silence, the creaky things embroiled; for the greater lady had intruded their refuge, uttering spells, soaked in vexed pyre and of self-coiled.
“Devoid she not, declare her, oh you coveted, coward, complicit, She’s cursed a sexual-child, of womanhood, my sons couldn’t kick-off in my womb’s miscarriage or failed amputating the capitals of her spirit’s residence. Carried in filthy fallopian, she crawled out in the crest of misogyny, why shall thou intrigue, conceal of her, for the fear, she might overturn a mutiny?”
“You dare not, I care not, she hear not, I spare not!”
“You bother ask, what sought deliverance to bring her out as a daughter’s Hymen-maid, a vagina? You mind ask if her breasts pervaded genes of me, to cast her into a lady Anna? You dare ask if she could drive-in with only a permit of Empress Diana? If all that brews my quest, states veracity in her amplification, she’s worthy of voids, that may lead her to survive, to survive in filling the futile, in scrubbing her juvenile, to survive in more excuses than you offer her combined, to survive with covenants and entails, that are impaired to ever offer her, her rights… for she is Prohibited!”
A weeping mother to the floor, throttled and screamed in unchecked verbosity to her child, who was no criminal, but a girl of delight!
Upasana Kashyap, being an amateur perfectionist, often sneaked out from the loopholes of the enamored wordly landscapes, and inscribed them in the form of voids of the caressing epoch! She, the writer-poet or professional it is, had bagged few publications this year and is garnering corporate experiences too, to not merely die a poet, but as a solemnly rich one!! Not an avid reader, a writer envied but, assured. She’s a shayara and an aspirant of free survival and mostly for being conscientiously indulged at whatsoever, she’s left amid the shores daydreaming, by the sailing world. She’s been a loner throughout, and the skill is at large, a serene resonation to it! She can be found on LinkedIn and Instagram