To write about you,
Is it to dream about a song.
The humming of your voice
Is a symphony sometimes.
Do you see my heart dancing
In all the flames you set within me?
Do you feel the warmth that sinks
Within me, as the echo of your voice
Slithers into my soul.
If you are the music,
Then teach me to dance,
Alone, unapologetically, forever.
I could help you out,
by an unhook, a tweeny move,
But who shall hold your wings then,
When the bra falls of the grounds
and the breasts turn to voluptuous beasts of touch.
The arch of the back shall intensify the visions
For a sword out of a sheath shines and tastes the brightest.
I could taste em, the edges of your sword made collarbone,
Promise you shall read my work for lifetime,
If i lost my tongue caressing your body
The wood savours its taste
Of the tasteless liquid.
Fireplace dreams
of its malignant kingdom
In the heavy cold downpour
I, rise as a sparrow,
To drench my non existent feathers.
My eyes dilate and reverberate
as a nonchalant child seeking
an incomprehensible vision.
The trees are showering,
Land is drowned in its brown ashes,
My dog peeks at the drops by the window.
His tongue is restless as my heart.
To stay, indoors
And bear the longing
Of this cold touch.
© Shashank Bhardwaj
Warmth is a long sedimentary pause,
sip it,slowly,
through eyes that have learned
the craft of forgetting.
Too much of an interlude
and the spaces around you
start spewing nostalgic visions.
The Sabbaticals turn to never ending
regrets.
I turn to a normality I feared:
A morning in April with no rain.
I should have woken up,
when It was winter,
and my heart still booming
with the summer’s dream
– Shashank Bhardwaj
If all the beauty in the world
ceases to exist someday,
You would still be the unwritten poem for me,
The one I could never finish.
For I fear, that if I do so,
You would be lost forever in this world,
in the unseen books and the untouched pages
and in the hands of all those admirers,
whose fingertips have forgotten,
the art of patience.
© Shashank Bhardwaj
Every tiny strand of this miniscule breeze
rummages through my bones, whispering voicelessly to drown in the unknown.
The kiss of light, is a birth of a memory.
The movement of tongue, is a voice of a dream
The feel of fingertips, is a breath never tasted.
Tell me how to forget all of them
and still exist, like a night without a moon.
– Shashank Bhardwaj
The tongue is heartless servant, it slithers on your neck and lips, like a snake devoid of warm flesh, I feel the warmth and the tremble in cleavage, but I am cursed as in eden.
It smothers the bra slowly, peeking within satanic eyes, the warmth is a thirst for a thing made of out flesh, it multiples while inside, caressing, pressing, Disappearing with eyes,
Your breath is a kiss of blaze burning and I was a winter worth nurturing with hands choking my existence
The breasts caressed slowly, into a tumultuous moment of touch, I trace the tips to its origin, feeling them erect and ready for to pleased, unhook now and lie down, let me taste the eden before being banished forever.
© Shashank Bhardwaj
Writings to Heaven 