To write about you,
Is it to dream about a song.
The humming of your voice
Is a symphony sometimes.
Do you see my heart dancing
In all the flames you set within me?
Do you feel the warmth that sinks
Within me, as the echo of your voice
Slithers into my soul.
If you are the music,
Then teach me to dance,
Alone, unapologetically, forever.
I could help you out,
by an unhook, a tweeny move,
But who shall hold your wings then,
When the bra falls of the grounds
and the breasts turn to voluptuous beasts of touch.
The arch of the back shall intensify the visions
For a sword out of a sheath shines and tastes the brightest.
I could taste em, the edges of your sword made collarbone,
Promise you shall read my work for lifetime,
If i lost my tongue caressing your body
The hair is tied and fixed,
its an abyss spread by your tips,
Its a veil that dropped
over your neck and the shoulders,
One could trace the curves of neck
And the collarbone with bare eyes,
with a hope of a dream though.
The lips are poignant and colorless,
That tempts the tongue to unthinkable pursuits,
The curve slips off like a fine bottle of sun kissed glass.
The bosoms and waist are sculpted of desires
draped in black
An ice cube would melt and jump off the way
Of your curves, kindled by your warmth.
Just think, what it would to my words,
When they touch your lips.
Brewing temptation in my ink.
© Shashank Bhardwaj
Pristine as it could be,
The dark rivers bejeweled by a natural light,
Your hair gallops softly on the nurtured skin,
The eyes deep pool of unforgiving madness,
Rest over the supple cheeks.
The lips seem fed of a douse of pink tulips,
Float untouched as the chin sculpts to the fine curve of neck,
The back seems arched and curved at ends of imagination,
The curves hold itself draped in golden brightness.
So you are here to make me unlearn poetry
Or to be a poem that can be unlearned.
– Shashank Bhardwaj
‘Kaafir’, the one with ghastly eyes.
They treat me as if I was born in Pashtun(Afghanistan ) plains,
I have sowed this land with my trembling hand for letters,
This lake is now a void, a graveyard reciting my cursed smoked throat
They claw my identity and assassinate it with bullets that don’t even weep.
The blood soaks my bedsheet, I am a memory now for some,
that floats in ravines and clouded mornings.
Prejudice, Nationality? I hear the echoes with eyes shot red with unloving sleep.
I spit on your eyes but faint afterwards,
Why doesn’t my heart turns to black after smoking?
© Shashank Bhardwaj
A memory of your smell :
an enslavement, so clandestine.
It tunes my arteries to sing,
like the waves sing,
for purposes unknown.
I ebb away , from this nonchalant madness
and turn into a moon-kissed star dust,
wishing there were no sun or stars,
Cause I now abhor the lick of light.
It separates us unknowingly.
How come I still dream of you again?
At what cost?
At what price?
© Shashank Bhardwaj
The curves begin to melt,
Its astounding we remember
Everything we touch.
So your memory is a trace of fingertips,
From the callous neck, to the sculpted collar bones, you are a like a hidden lake in an island forgotten, where I dip to forget myself,
The curves extrapolate like rays of sunlight never knowing why,
From the breasts to the fine arch of the back,
Everything dissolves again and again,
My hands aren’t wet with your touch?
Are you really what they call as magic?
For my hands disappear within you,
Tracing every tips without whispering you,
Touching everywhere without telling you?
Making it a dream, with dreaming you,
Do you feel it all, or should I be dissolving you?
Not by touch, not by shyness
But by a pool of shyness and leaving you?
I never knew how to withdraw, so the dress is leaving you?
Maniacal? Sensuous? Are you mad?
All sound same. While your eyes teach you.
Writings to Heaven 