I want to hear impatient moans
everytime I feel your skin with my tongue,
For I am blind to it’s contours and wetness,
My hands only tends to the voices of flesh,
I silence the desires with my fingers
Till they wet or tired
Or both.
© Shashank Bhardwaj
A distance between nothingness
and hushed whispers, measured in silence,
where you throw your slippers away
and drown into the shallowest pond you could find,
just to disappear for a moment.
There is desolated piano
somewhere in between,
shedding its skin,
living off the mosses.
your hands do not remember
the melody, they have turned
into voiceless eyes.
The music never fades though,
the breath never ends,
the skin never melts.
there are no banks of hope,
It is just you and an emptiness within
mating shamelessly, producing progenies
that never stop wailing.
You want to swim,
You want to drink the pond away,
but the thirst dried ages ago.
So you wait for Sun,
To end it brightly.
Someday.
Shashank Bhardwaj
I was born out of a blood-bath
and will turn to dust someday,
I shall finally laugh voicelessly
while resting on a bed of fire.
The horizons shall still be untouched
their throats shall still bleed
as the sun sets in tired
by this never ending melancholy.
A thousand dogs shall still be homeless
their hopeful eyes still clueless
The men shall still be reckless,
The women shall still be remorseless,
The earth shall still be lifeless,
This cycle shall still be pointless.
© Shashank Bhardwaj
Have I told you lately?
Of how I trace your scent
every time it rains violently.
This very ground trembles today.
nonchalant to our unending sighs.
We were the two inescapable shadows,
now we drift away from each other
into an incomprehensible darkness
On this edge of dissolution,
a mere push of time.
dissolves us as intangible memories
This air, drenched in regret
wraps us in a blanket of past,
to let us abandon our beginnings.
as a feast for this immortal rain.
Our hands caress the untouched remains
We forget the skies and the cold water
trickling down our backs.
In a blink, we finally become
the smell of the earth,
after the rain, that is always full of love,
but no one knows why.
Writings to Heaven 