creative-writing, nature, Poems, Poetry, think

Color of Love

Last night, I sojourned in the warm fields of cherry blossom,
letting my silence convolve with the voiceless dreams.

I cried in a language, I never heard before.
The memory of my voice absconds
for a few days.
Leaving only regretful notes, of unending sabbaticals.

Nature never speaks, I have observed.
It just pours a volume of voices from its belly,
into a pot full of colors,
to melt and coalesce
for our eyes to fathom in silence.

So the next time, we lie on the bed,
don’t speak, just observe all of my colors
as I trace the aching fan dying out above.

Whisper to me then gently, if you wish,
of how does the grey mix in the volumes of smiles bright?
And yet never turns loud enough
for us to tremble and dissolve
in one another,
painting our silence
into this unspeakable color of love.

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creative-writing, dream, Fiction & Poetry, Life, Love, Poems, poetry, Writings

Deciphering a Red Silence.

Every ray of sunlight,
is a drop of warmth
melted by god’s eyes

You, a silver mirror,
That can glitter my hand even in the darkness,
as if a thousand ants enjoying a living feast,
for their heart’s are as restless as a lover’s hunger for voice.

In my dreams, each night,
Someone cleaves the sky with no voice.
It becomes a darkroom where I fumble with trembling hands,
my memories dipped in a pool of questions,
like a photograph being developed in a room full of darkest red wines.

I wake up to a room devoid of light,
wishing to be in a subway where no one cares for your existence if you have learned to forget your hands.
I sleep wishing the subway leads to nowhere.
A silence is a powerful noise,
When shall our ears act like our eyes?

– Shashank Bhardwaj

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creative-writing, dream, Poems, Poetry, poetry, Prose

Rotten Bones and Displaced Heart

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 color of a fragile copper abandoned
in an unnamed graveyard.

It is basically a practice of perfection,
to death: the permanent sleep,
the unanswered question stabs
the unasked answer,
The god with no eyes and a displaced heart
just sighs.

Shashank Bhardwaj

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Fiction & Poetry, horror, Poems, Poetry

A Red Dying Autumn

These wretched windows :
the sweet transparent eyes
for this world, shatter with a brief touch.
An ache develops itself,
and spreads vehemently.
There is no reason to it.
Not that I remember.

A leaf discolors to red.
My cigarettes now end prematurely.
an ancestral curse, somehow broken.
This drink is a decade, swallow it patiently.
for the fire it sprinkles on the insides,
is a catharsis for the unexpected longing.

The dying sun leaks of love,
The dreams turn irresistibly haunting.
Come O Winter,
relinquish your malice over warm touch.
Once and forever.
There is no reason to it.


– Shashank Bhardwaj

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Fiction & Poetry, fiction and poetry, Love, poetry

Elegy For the Unseen

As the hour passes, grief cumulates
into nascent debris of nothingness.
Even with all arms folded neatly
or even haphazardly to the chest,
a vulnerability pulverizes the brightness
of your existence.
A silence deafens your vision.

Death sweeps a block of your reality.
It diminishes you :
melodious suffering.
You can’t hymn this untouched air.
It is a sudden void now.
You can’t unheed this strange silence.
It is a voiceless cry now.

The timid drops of time,
sunlight through a dusted shard of glass,
the chirp of a random bird,
the bustle of familiar road,
a heart stitched with a thread
made of fine-tuned painless ambitions,
is all you have now
and this elegy, for the unseen
to be read, when it rains.

Shashank Bhardwaj


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creative-writing, fiction and poetry, Love, Poems, poetry

End

For every voiceless sigh
I can see you, teasing the warmth left
In your palpable heart.

Its like the song of welcoming an unknown winter,
Where we once breathed in unison,
under an orchid :
sharing lies to be forgotten, to exile each other
from the warm belonging.
Poured upon us , the drop of truths
still vehemently jealous
Of our lips, who patiently and mutely
remember the arch of touch.

How close we have been, today
This becoming,the voiceless drift.
A soft touch never spills secret.
It brews it.

If music is the cupid of love
Let it rehearse itself,
Till we forget the tunes

How does it feels to be soundless,
While sitting next to you,
is the beginning of the end
and end of the beginning.

– Shashank Bhardwaj

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