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
As the hour passes, grief cumulates
into nascent debris of nothingness.
Even with all arms folded neatly
or even haphazardly to the chest,
a vulnerability pulverizes the brightness
of your existence.
A silence deafens your vision.
Death sweeps a block of your reality.
It diminishes you :
melodious suffering.
You can’t hymn this untouched air.
It is a sudden void now.
You can’t unheed this strange silence.
It is a voiceless cry now.
The timid drops of time,
sunlight through a dusted shard of glass,
the chirp of a random bird,
the bustle of familiar road,
a heart stitched with a thread
made of fine-tuned painless ambitions,
is all you have now
and this elegy, for the unseen
to be read, when it rains.
Shashank Bhardwaj
For every voiceless sigh
I can see you, teasing the warmth left
In your palpable heart.
Its like the song of welcoming an unknown winter,
Where we once breathed in unison,
under an orchid :
sharing lies to be forgotten, to exile each other
from the warm belonging.
Poured upon us , the drop of truths
still vehemently jealous
Of our lips, who patiently and mutely
remember the arch of touch.
How close we have been, today
This becoming,the voiceless drift.
A soft touch never spills secret.
It brews it.
If music is the cupid of love
Let it rehearse itself,
Till we forget the tunes
How does it feels to be soundless,
While sitting next to you,
is the beginning of the end
and end of the beginning.
– Shashank Bhardwaj
there is a searing in my chest
as I shed this skin of
nostalgia-laced prayers
the coldest night of the year falls
as I remember when I felt cold with you –
solemn breaths of the sea
heaving against a ragged coast
Irish rain drowning the countryside
with the aching vigor of an old god
the black trees that spoke of loneliness
cliffs cloaked in the seduction of solitude
gray castle walls climbing towards the sky,
encircling us in cold medieval stone
when I was with you I felt everything
until nothing was left
you left me with piles of driftwood
hinting at the shipwreck below
like redrawing constellations
you erased me from the sky,
I discard your cruel revisions
and bury our goodbyes
– Shashank Bhardwaj
Alone I was
I gazed at you,
your drenched silhouette…
I was dazed
by your beauty,
I could feel the warmth,
the surge of adrenaline
through the veins…
Those eyes,
they had emotions,
to be told, to be felt…
The touch slowly melted
your warm lips,
The eyes recoiled themselves
in a pause of passion.
My hands inching from the chin to
buttons, slowly falling on the ground.
I travel inside the white veil of shyness
Every touch on the cleavage
makes your breath stop,
There is no end,
But a beginning to discovery
Of madness
– Shashank
What is it?
That draws a knife through the heart?
Is it the separation between them?
The anonymity brewing between them?
The pause of decisions?
The thousand veins that weigh down the feeble heart?
The slithering silver edges tasting of unforgotten dreams ?
You need to draw it once.
The curse of repetition
begins with an imperfect try.
Be brave enough,
Not for the blood,
Not for the teared arteries,
Not for the sun that never sets on
the red river for forgiveness.
But for the silence
That follows.
Writings to Heaven 