creative-writing, Death, Fiction & Poetry, fiction and poetry, Life, Poems, Poetry, Writings

Hues of Horror.


The tepid air slowly sheds
its orange hue; collected throughout
the year while caressing the lips of the sunlight.
Half past dawn, it refurbishes its desire from
the warm currents of a sea, I never loved.

It haunts me still, the taste of salt,
that lingers over my coward tongue.
That is how I have learned,
to be a man of few words.

winds, salted and warmed
still, lick my neck as a mistress without eyes
as I sleep naked; sweating profusely, dream after dream.
This taste of darkness, I do not recognize anymore.
It is my shadow perhaps, clasping his
hands over my eyes, drying my throat.

A whirlwind has drowned my words
into an abyss of untasteful rust.
My shadow laughs voicelessly
in a room full of mirrors
as I seek him with my eyes closed.

It is just the beginning,
red hues of light disappear
The waves now are not beautiful.
They never were.
Do not bury me in the ocean.
I will never make it to the shore.
I somehow know.


© Shashank Bhardwaj


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