There is not
A single soul among these trees
And I love to decipher your voice
But the silence of yours is what
Keeps me at night.
Don’t know where I’ve gone.
It somewhere between the time,
I knew you
And somewhere between when you were
Interested to know about me.
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.
Every ray of sunlight,
is a drop of warmth
melted by god’s eyes
You, a silver mirror,
That can glitter my hand even in the darkness,
as if a thousand ants enjoying a living feast,
for their heart’s are as restless as a lover’s hunger for voice.
In my dreams, each night,
Someone cleaves the sky with no voice.
It becomes a darkroom where I fumble with trembling hands,
my memories dipped in a pool of questions,
like a photograph being developed in a room full of darkest red wines.
I wake up to a room devoid of light,
wishing to be in a subway where no one cares for your existence if you have learned to forget your hands.
I sleep wishing the subway leads to nowhere.
A silence is a powerful noise,
When shall our ears act like our eyes?
– Shashank Bhardwaj
There is no shame in choking the uneasiness
out of one’s sleep.
My larynx melts
when it is this dark.
The neck dissolves itself,
into a pool of subtle cold regrets
Silence drapes my bones
in a shroud of voiceless memories
rotting them, turning them
into the color of a fragile copper abandoned
in an unnamed graveyard.
It is basically a practice of perfection,
to death: the permanent sleep,
the unanswered question stabs
the unasked answer,
The god with no eyes and a displaced heart
just sighs.
– Shashank Bhardwaj
My toes are always burdened,
the mirage of my own existence
hides with way I walk.
No, bright sun or cool breezes,
warm flames or chilling silences
can refill my chalice of purpose.
I have to keep drinking myself
till I am empty enough to flow,
There is no taste for longing,
Its just a weather my tongue never forgets.
We are all pieces of unfinished monologues,
laughing miserably with a blindfold,
remembering a perfect sleep.
– Shashank Bhardwaj
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.
Please.
– SB
Writings to Heaven 