There is no shame in choking
the uneasiness out of one’s sleep.
My larynx melts
when it is this dark.
The neck dissolves itself
into a pool of subtle cold regrets
Silence drapes my bones
in a shroud of voiceless memories
rotting them, turning them
into the colour of a fragile copper
abandoned in an unnamed graveyard.
It is basically a practice of perfection,
to Death: the permanent sleep,
the unanswered question,
the unasked answer,
the god with no eyes
and a displaced heart.
© Shashank Bhardwaj
Writings to Heaven 