Category Archives: Death

creative-writing, Death, Fiction & Poetry, fiction and poetry, Life, Love, Poems, Poetry, Writings

Should I still float?

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For the past seven days
I have been floating in the carcass of this boat
dancing to the tunes of mediocrity.
My daisies are now dead.
Their aching souls have found solace
in the howlings of the shameless winds.

It’s so easy to disappear once you are out of words.
You become a shadow with a taste for silence.

The lack-lustered azure shows no remorse
for this land without a song.
It cannot weep tonight,
for the madness in its belly
while groping the breasts
of colorless clouds
has been ejaculated long ago.

I conjure the ripples
over a lifeless lake.
This is one of the last daisies, I found.
A few more hours into this rummage,
and I shall decapitate my existence
with a thirst for words
still lingering over my voiceless tongue.
Feed’em to the hungry dogs.
Call it Poetic Justice.


© Shashank Bhardwaj

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AnatomyofaPlaneCrash

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

Anatomy

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creative-writing, Death, Fiction & Poetry, fiction and poetry, Life, Poems, Poetry, Writings

Hues of Horror.

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The tepid air slowly sheds
its orange hue; collected throughout
the year while caressing the lips of the sunlight.
Half past dawn, it refurbishes its desire from
the warm currents of a sea, I never loved.

It haunts me still, the taste of salt,
that lingers over my coward tongue.
That is how I have learned,
to be a man of few words.

winds, salted and warmed
still, lick my neck as a mistress without eyes
as I sleep naked; sweating profusely, dream after dream.
This taste of darkness, I do not recognize anymore.
It is my shadow perhaps, clasping his
hands over my eyes, drying my throat.

A whirlwind has drowned my words
into an abyss of untasteful rust.
My shadow laughs voicelessly
in a room full of mirrors
as I seek him with my eyes closed.

It is just the beginning,
red hues of light disappear
The waves now are not beautiful.
They never were.
Do not bury me in the ocean.
Please.
I will never make it to the shore.
I somehow know.

 

© Shashank Bhardwaj

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creative-writing, Death, Fiction & Poetry, fiction and poetry, light, Love, Poems, Poetry, Writings

An Abandoned School

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Caress the disfigured syllables gently,
a rain of bullets should not deprive
them from a veil of modesty.

I stand near the tombstones of shadows
in a graveyard of light; seeing voiceless gods
smile from broken mirrors.
Did they bleed faith? I cared not to check.

A delusional existence gone too far-that brought
men raging with guns and children whimpering
in terror together, in a room.

While both of them prayed silently
accepting their unfulfilled destiny.

© Shashank Bhardwaj

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

A Mermaid’s Past

sucide-into-well

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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