Beneath the trees
that once nurtured me,
I oversee the valleys.
The Fog descends slowly
like a veil to guard
the modesty of untouched lands
Come morning,
the shimmering sunlight
shall remove the veil
with yellow bright
kisses; lakes and seas
shall mirror the coquettishness
in the blues.
Nature’s unapologetic love
brews in the unseen seasons,
un-noticed somehow.
my existence floats
in a boat made up of dreams
over the turbulent seas of death.
the illusion of a charade.
the night’s scythe
cleaves my head:
blood with a famine of words
splatter all over the dusty bed-sheets.
The crucifixion of lies.
the boat trembles, seas rage.
With bleeding toes, my existence
inches towards the edges of insanity
laughing like a suicidal dog with
a growing distaste for chewed bones.
The Paradox of suffering.
I wait for an unheard laughter,
for the air to caress the wind chimes again.
It will all be over soon.
More the blood loss, deeper the ink to write with.
Don’t you think?
© Shashank Bhardwaj
Days worsen
as men leap onto me
in bodies riddled
with bullets
smelling of blood
shrieking mutely
eyes white
with a fear unfelt
the whole life
tongues desperate
for comforting lies
pleads for redemption
never comes out
of their silenced mouths
I silently pass on prayers
closing their eyes
to avoid seeing
the holy/unholy
gates they will
end up in their
afterlives.
© Shashank Bhardwaj
like venomous snakes
let us shed our afterlives
on the floors of past
to swim in the dark futures
unseen,untouched,unashamed.
A Tanka is a Japanese form of poetry that has a Syllable structure of 5/7/5/7/7 over the course of a single line with breaks.
Quantum of quivers queue quintessentially,
the rancor from the relishes reverberates with rage.
serenity seeps slowly into the sleep of sensuality:
as I tickle the tenacious thighs and think of tricks.
the universality of the urges shall not be undone.
the vagrancy within myself will end vividly.
our acts are now xeroxed, the near x-mas forgotten
the youthful yumminess of the yesteryear revisited.
the real loving people,
the ones who feast on hearts
for years and centuries and
hunt on the smell of affection,
stay away from them.
Avoid them.
For they would make
you feel loving is normal,
it’s necessary.
But it isn’t
the real insane people,
the ones who shapeshift
into volcanoes and waterfall
at a slight change in air flow,
Avoid them.
For they would make
you feel insanity is normal.
it’s necessary
But it isn’t.
the real versions of you,
the ones who you greet in the mirror,
the artist, the erotic and lewd writer\dreamer,
the failed guitarist, the Bukowski in making,
Avoid all of them.
For they would make
you feel failure is normal
It’s necessary.
But it isn’t.
Everybody waits
for love, for the purest snow
in unseen winters.
© Shashank Bhardwaj
Writings to Heaven 