I once wrote for others
chaps so full of literature,
they would puke sonnets.
Women with legs
wearing beautiful stockings
looking like Ballads.
But they never read.
They were so full of themselves
and I wasn’t full of myself anywhere,
It took me a year of my life
to realize that
I won’t be full of myself
anytime soon.
You fuckers reading this.
Let me know,
When I’m Done.
I rinse
in the leftovers
of your smell, waiting for you
in the everlasting darkness.
For sometimes
I ache for you:
a perfect amalgamation
of flesh and tender bones
that must have bathed
in a rain of fire in her afterlives.
In morning your slither into our bed in that black dress of yours burning the dichotomy of the dissolved night and the receding day.
I then kiss, make love and regret nothing
like the human who discovered fire.
© Shashank Bhardwaj
If love is a raging sea
then leave me to drown,
till my heart becomes a memory.
She only remembers the drowning.
the smell of the candles
put out with tears is a forgotten memory.
the wrath of the Poseidon trembled the sky,
stars disappeared in the hidden asylum of unseen alleys.
A dissolution of an ominous fear
of losing someone in a never-ending darkness.
A leap in the deep abyss
black hues massacres the blue
body with a heavy heart drowns
till the anguish warms the water.
At night, the colors resume their hibernation
in the lake of rainbows.
Search for the love, who promised
to come back now tastes like bitter salt.
a sharp tinge of regret on tongues
that lick the icicles of truth.
To be Continued.
The dusted road bathes today, for the sky bleeds its white blood. Every drop is a wondrous suicide, a deliberate fall for love of joy. Who knew that the washed away soil would take everyone back to their dreams. We used to chase the rainbows till we forget each other’s faces. We floated and tasted these colours.Sometimes we carried them in our pockets for the night. Rain kept the fallen dead leaves alive. They would float to their shores to be picked by lovers, dried and kept in books. We were so young then.We could have been gods of our lives then, but everyone now takes these autumnal rains for granted.
dead red leaves float to
carry the smell of wet earth,
please take me along.
– A Haibun is a Traditional Japanese Poetry that includes a Prose with a Haiku. The First Paragraph is a prose and the second one is a haiku.
Slip away sometimes
from the edges of sweet dreams
did the music fade?
a kiss of doom
wrapped in dark hues
brews voicelessly.
the light swallows itself.
winds slither through sky
as wolves howl on the new moon.
stars watch mutely.
the tandava begins.
fury of light
bursts the sky in million pieces,
alms of thundering echoes
for mortals under the bed.
© Shashank Bhardwaj
Writings to Heaven 