They all gathered
Strangely, they all spoke to me fluently.
Some grief, some love, some longing, 
and some dead...my old poems.
They gave me the eyes of worship, 
Like I was their God.
They spoke of how they were created.
One stood out.
“I was created to be destroyed.
For I was written with a knife. 
A knife that pierced the pages, 
Killed the diary, and thoughts.
I was the last forbidden poem 
That made her suffer for the last word.
My creator is who she is
Not a god, but a slave.
A slave to my every word, 
Hoping to write the same again.
It was I for whom she weeps thorns 
On the paper that once were petals.
So, she is not God, but a slave to me.
Every night, she returns to my grave,
A stone that punctures her heart still.
It is I for whom she looks when sky is red.
So, she is not God, she’s a slave to me
Whose hands remain caged in my lines,
Who feeds thoughts to make me breathe,
A slave who worships me like God.
So, she is not God, 
But a slave to me.



By Advikaa Khobragade 
Dharampeth MP Deo 
Memorial College