The hair is all spiraled up and soft
with the ends loose,
Burned of a fire black, but still
exists as the creamy mass of delicacy.
Your smile is a carved wet symphony
A sound in silence, with eyelashes the color of offsprings of dark.
The skin bloom of a pink becomes your second skin,over the fair white,
Sculpting your body, caressing and holding
Your bosoms and curves firmly in a strap of color known
Every curve traced melodiously,
The smile can make anyone forget the touch of all soft curves below the neck and beyond.
But I am a poet, not like the rest of them,
I would go down below, to live all
with my same bare hands with which i write.
Because they have never learned to lie.

© Shashank Bhardwaj

Every drift
Is a cartilage bearing
the sins of a unbearable capillary

The sentences of no remorse
comes in forms.

A wild stag robbed of its skin,
over a snow that even melts eyeballs,
tells me of a impatient mind.

Broken chateau glasses in season of fall
with no stains of warm blood over floor,
tells of wrath, that puked out of a heart dying of collapsing walls of insecurity

A man observing both, in vortex of time
Is stuck as a blob of ice feeling,
not knowing when to melt and when to burn.
A peace he cannot drink or spit
But bear with his actions.