Everybody waits
for love, for the purest snow
in unseen winters.
© Shashank Bhardwaj
Category Archives: beauty
A Mermaid’s Past
She only remembers the drowning.
the smell of the candles
put out with tears is a forgotten memory.
the wrath of the Poseidon trembled the sky,
stars disappeared in the hidden asylum of unseen alleys.
A dissolution of an ominous fear
of losing someone in a never-ending darkness.
A leap in the deep abyss
black hues massacres the blue
body with a heavy heart drowns
till the anguish warms the water.
At night, the colors resume their hibernation
in the lake of rainbows.
Search for the love, who promised
to come back now tastes like bitter salt.
a sharp tinge of regret on tongues
that lick the icicles of truth.
To be Continued.
Autumnal Rain – Haibun
The dusted road bathes today, for the sky bleeds its white blood. Every drop is a wondrous suicide, a deliberate fall for love of joy. Who knew that the washed away soil would take everyone back to their dreams. We used to chase the rainbows till we forget each other’s faces. We floated and tasted these colours.Sometimes we carried them in our pockets for the night. Rain kept the fallen dead leaves alive. They would float to their shores to be picked by lovers, dried and kept in books. We were so young then.We could have been gods of our lives then, but everyone now takes these autumnal rains for granted.
dead red leaves float to
carry the smell of wet earth,
please take me along.
– A Haibun is a Traditional Japanese Poetry that includes a Prose with a Haiku. The First Paragraph is a prose and the second one is a haiku.
A Few
It was good in the old days.
The poets were poets.
The writers were writers.
The artists were artists.
Now we have men and women
who under a comfortable roof
and closed doors try to look different
to this world.
They paint, write and create when they feel like.
They call it a Balance.
A Hobby.
A Stress relieving mechanism.
It makes them feel different.
Differently dead from one another.
Dead throughout their days
from the everlasting stupor
induced by the attention of others.
It ends in their dreams I feel.
They don’t have desperation
nailing their back.
The desperation to create something
that shall last a thousand years.
It comes in a few people only.
those who just care about creating.
those who dissolve their souls
on papers and paint it with their blood.
They do have the same passion as others.
But what makes them really different
from others is that they know
passion is like Gasoline.
You have to pour it over yourself
and start the fire
to really feel it.
Afternoons to Nights
It is Valentines.
Working from home,
the monotony
has been strangulated mercilessly.
There is the absence of this world,
the air today smells like gasoline floating in
the fresh rain-wet grass.
My Universe is now out of the closet,
out of its hangovers like a horse
ready to tame the winds.
James Hetfield keeps telling me
through the speakers:
and I am Unforgiven too.
Maybe we all are for reducing
ourselves to squeaking mannequins
displayed to the world as relics
of over-flowing mannerisms,
to be sold to the highest bidder
who shall bring us out as a war chest
in times of insecurity.
Its Valentines, my love
Just go out
and fucking love yourself to death
before it is too late.
The Night’s a Serpent
Dark hues deliquesce
in the warmth of the burning stars,
the black cosmic sea now floats:
but still an abomination in eyes
of people spoon-fed with light.
Coiling and encircling the unseen ends
on the horizon; like Jörmungandr, the mighty serpent,
while winds hymn odes for the people
who drank in chalices sprinkled with stardust
The language of Aeolian is now have forgotten.
the constrictions of the serpent shall bleed
morning light in a few hours.
I will wait for the revolutions to complete
while caressing its skin through the desire
in eyes.
Dostoevsky
This guy got me thinking,
through delirium and despair
with sprinkles of madness over
a flesh with a weak heart sewed
over layers of hope.
the ones who write about uncertainty,
death and creating hope out of it are the real writers that made me feel something.
Dostoevsky was the zenith of it.
The Rest writers nowadays are selling themselves, mushrooming like burger joints, using layers of cheesy love and regret to get noticed.
Writings to Heaven 