beauty, creative-writing, dream, Fiction & Poetry, Life, Love, Poems, Poetry

A low voice and a blanket of memories

The stars become cold,
It rained last night.
The shiver kills every beauty:
Stay, do not move,
do not use your hair.
You are a symmetry now,
I am a blindfolded architect,
Let me trace your heart tonight.

My blanket has dreamed more than me,
It sees an ocean of blue at times,
to drown itself, at least once:
Warm bodies are always vulnerable,
They leave you at the sign of cold.
Or when the inhabitants are warm enough.
All relationships are paradoxical,
Just fail once, you will learn.

The skies cry for the seas.
The waves tremble to mate the sky.
The horizon is a red illusion.
We shall meet and not meet.
We shall dream and not.

Tell me, label us once as something?
or not?

Because once you label us,
we will disappear,
into things we can’t control.
Free fall into me.
Once.

You won’t regret it.

 
Promise?

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beauty, creative-writing, dream, Fiction & Poetry, Life, Love

Stop Me

The hair is veiled
With an abysmal darkness in your eyes,
But your smile is the light of those pink lips,
You spell an aura of resplendence,
Of silence breathing in chaos.
From the fair collarbone and sculpted neck,
The curves below rests and tempt every living soul with some youthfulness left in their hearts with customary pair of functioning eyes.
The bosoms shaped tempting, while the
picture of loneliness burns in brightsm
Do not move when I observe you
and consume some chaos.
I need to observe more
Till my eyes rust
in this rain of calmness.

Perfectly shaped bosoms,
curved over a bright brasserie
traced towards a series of irresistible
sun baked patches of skin.
Now move slowly,
Let me forget this image.
I need some sleep,
To dream you again.
Unravelling everything slowly
Till you forget to stop me.

© Shashank Bhardwaj

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creative-writing, dream, Fiction & Poetry, Life, Love, Poems, poetry

A Blanket of Memories

As the night rests it’s breath
over my skin,
It hymns a taste of memory
That drowns my eyes

With a dream.
A million unforgettable mirrors,
mate with the light of my eyes.
I become a moment of a dying lifetime.

Come, decipher my touch.
Let it paint a voice in your dreams too.
Till we swallow the reality entirely
At least for tonight.

© Shashank Bhardwaj

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

Wrong

The collar bone is a mellow beauty
held by infallible black straps of the unknown
that leads to softer dominions of flesh below.
Your smile above is etched in the eye,
But my hands forget those after
Seeing the soft sumptuous breasts within the black halter that acts as the veil,
the arched back tempts my lips just by imagining it
firmed by a comfortable lacy black hook.
It goes down in a perfect curve of desire to the hips and below,
I believe someone sculpted you,
Am I right?
From neck to the tempting breasts and to the waist, some did sculpted those curves in your body
Don’t tell me wrong now.
I can see it.

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

Forever

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.

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beauty, dream, Fiction & Poetry, Life, Love, Poems, poetry

Unforgiving Muses

Pristine as it could be,
The dark rivers bejeweled by a natural light,
Your hair gallops softly on the nurtured skin,
The eyes deep pool of unforgiving madness,
Rest over the supple cheeks.

The lips seem fed of a douse of pink tulips,
Float untouched as the chin sculpts to the fine curve of neck,
The back seems arched and curved at ends of imagination,
The curves hold itself draped in golden brightness.

So you are here to make me unlearn poetry
Or to be a poem that can be unlearned.

– Shashank Bhardwaj

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

A Cigaratte lit in Kashmir

‘Kaafir’, the one with ghastly eyes.
They treat me as if I was born in Pashtun(Afghanistan ) plains,
I have sowed this land with my trembling hand for letters,
This lake is now a void, a graveyard reciting my cursed smoked throat
They claw my identity and assassinate it with bullets that don’t even weep.
The blood soaks my bedsheet, I am a memory now for some,
that floats in ravines and clouded mornings.
Prejudice, Nationality? I hear the echoes with eyes shot red with unloving sleep.
I spit on your eyes but faint afterwards,
Why doesn’t my heart turns to black after smoking?

© Shashank Bhardwaj

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