beauty, Death, Desire, Fiction & Poetry, fiction and poetry, Life, Love, Poems, Poetry, Writings

A Girl’s heart is never hers.

Call it a predicament,
Or the nature’s curse,
As soon the girl blossoms into a woman
her heart is never hers.

It belongs to the roots:
Her parents, her family,
Her unknown love, devoid of the sorrowful meetings.
A transaction she never prefers.

She sit in her balcony
For the sky teases her for sorrowful palette.
These wonders if everything, falls in her place
This heart transacted with a pulse of sorrow,
blooms into the autumn light of hope.

There is something about your face,
I wonder and wonder and never fail.
This heart somehow I feel is mine, tell me a price.
is it A knife, some blood, a meticulous sacrifice ?

Come back now, in the winter we promised.
Retrace yourself, somehow.
This heart deluded of our voices.
its our, for now. forever somehow

Make it the last sun,
the last moon,
the last meteor.
I want this time to last.
For chase me now, as you can,
As spring chases winter.
every then, somehow


beauty, creative-writing, Death, Desire, dream, Fiction & Poetry, fiction and poetry, Heart, Life, Poems, Poetry

An Ode to Dying Winter

What is this heart?
if not a emotion driven by a flood of questions?
I lay shirtless in an unknown darkness,
Somebody robbed me of a known darkness,

Every nerve has a memory
Hence, I have no words to describe winter,
It reminds me of months of change,
It now reminds me to assess of the change.

There are no pomegranates or apples in my gardens,
It is just the ice soaked grass,
my toes hurt when I trespass my property.
For what?
I cannot change the end of winter,
If Winter was here, can Spring be far behind?

Nobody should ever listen to the aches of comfort,
of a winter of campfire and whiskey
You get used to it slowly,
Now the bottles are empty,
Some broken,
Some lost.

I wait in the edge of a land of disappearing snow,
thinking was it all worth it?
Yes it was.
Somebody tell my heart once again.This.

– SB

beauty, creative-writing, Death, Fiction & Poetry, Life, Love, Poems, poetry

A Winter with no Light

White : a color of absence
a touch of nothingness,
swallows a village overnight.
The remains are prayers
and candle lights.

Preserve your warmth,
learn your exits where your body learns to regret.
A temple of belief, desolated tonight.
A sky sucked out of light, kiss of fire stolen tonight.

Seek my lips
Numb my pain with the whitest touch.
Close my eyes and listen to my hymns.
Give it a form : turn it into a music, a Carol.
My heart bleeds again and again.
Turn it into poetry tonight.
Make a tongue a poet tonight.

© Shashank Bhardwaj

Death, Fiction & Poetry, Life, Love, Poems, poetry

The Girl with the Ouija Board

Dark sinister whisperings
rouse my soul up,
‘Every Tongue has a demon
buried within its veins, for
it gives birth to thirst,
lust and blood.’
She told me before sleeping,

Archaic hymns, butchered lemons
drowned in vinegar, disappeared behind
a mist of lavender smelling candles,
apexed at pentagram made of saffron

I feel her curves turn cold,
the lips turn ominously black,
‘Eyes are windows to this world,
darkness is the passage to all other’
she keeps murmuring,holding my hand
till it is not she anymore.

I could sense it the way my hands are touched,
the way she removes her clothes then
and the way she kisses.
She never told her of her fetishes
and now I can’t even ask.

beauty, creative-writing, Death, Fiction & Poetry, Life, Love, Poems, poetry


A memory of your smell :
an enslavement, so clandestine.
It tunes my arteries to sing,
like the waves sing,
for purposes unknown.

I ebb away , from this nonchalant madness
and turn into a moon-kissed star dust,
wishing there were no sun or stars,

Cause I now abhor the lick of light.
It separates us unknowingly.
How come I still dream of you again?
At what cost?
At what price?

© Shashank Bhardwaj

beauty, creative-writing, Death, Fiction & Poetry, Heart, Life, Love, Poems, poetry, Writings


The curves begin to melt,
Its astounding we remember
Everything we touch.
So your memory is a trace of fingertips,
From the callous neck, to the sculpted collar bones, you are a like a hidden lake in an island forgotten, where I dip to forget myself,
The curves extrapolate like rays of sunlight never knowing why,
From the breasts to the fine arch of the back,
Everything dissolves again and again,
My hands aren’t wet with your touch?
Are you really what they call as magic?

For my hands disappear within you,
Tracing every tips without whispering you,
Touching everywhere without telling you?
Making it a dream, with dreaming you,
Do you feel it all, or should I be dissolving you?
Not by touch, not by shyness
But by a pool of shyness and leaving you?
I never knew how to withdraw, so the dress is leaving you?
Maniacal? Sensuous? Are you mad?
All sound same. While your eyes teach you.

beauty, Death, dream, fiction and poetry, Life, Love, Poems, poetry


I cannot pass sentences,
for I am a city of dust and wreckage,
not abandoned but desolated.
Some of it dissolve in the terms as peace,
I have tasted a valley of dust
with my tongue dried of elixirs of imagination,
Has anybody every told you that every dream
is a shivering icicle that tastes differently under a throat, used to a strange moaning at dawn.

I roam in shawl made of knitted regrets,
Ones with tongue that make my body perspire
in a heat of doomed past, my nipples are refuge of obedience, they disappear for the taste
lacking this irresistible warmth of winter.
I wish I could,
pass sentences,
and swallow cities.
I would have taken the a color of red,
Over whatever is left after dreaming a carnage.
Just to melt,

To disappear,
To be touched,
and caressed,
As all the dreams are reds,
the brights dissolved in darkest hues.

For those who stay up with no reason whatsoever.

© Shashank Bhardwaj