creative-writing, nature, Poems, Poetry, think

Color of Love

Last night, I sojourned in the warm fields of cherry blossom,
letting my silence convolve with the voiceless dreams.

I cried in a language, I never heard before.
The memory of my voice absconds
for a few days.
Leaving only regretful notes, of unending sabbaticals.

Nature never speaks, I have observed.
It just pours a volume of voices from its belly,
into a pot full of colors,
to melt and coalesce
for our eyes to fathom in silence.

So the next time, we lie on the bed,
don’t speak, just observe all of my colors
as I trace the aching fan dying out above.

Whisper to me then gently, if you wish,
of how does the grey mix in the volumes of smiles bright?
And yet never turns loud enough
for us to tremble and dissolve
in one another,
painting our silence
into this unspeakable color of love.

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creative-writing, dream, Poems, Poetry, poetry, Prose

Rotten Bones and Displaced Heart

There is no shame in choking the uneasiness
out of one’s sleep.

My larynx melts
when it is this dark.
The neck dissolves itself,
into a pool of subtle cold regrets

Silence drapes my bones
in a shroud of voiceless memories
rotting them, turning them
into the color of a fragile copper abandoned
in an unnamed graveyard.

It is basically a practice of perfection,
to death: the permanent sleep,
the unanswered question stabs
the unasked answer,
The god with no eyes and a displaced heart
just sighs.

Shashank Bhardwaj

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Fiction & Poetry, horror, Poems, Poetry

A Red Dying Autumn

These wretched windows :
the sweet transparent eyes
for this world, shatter with a brief touch.
An ache develops itself,
and spreads vehemently.
There is no reason to it.
Not that I remember.

A leaf discolors to red.
My cigarettes now end prematurely.
an ancestral curse, somehow broken.
This drink is a decade, swallow it patiently.
for the fire it sprinkles on the insides,
is a catharsis for the unexpected longing.

The dying sun leaks of love,
The dreams turn irresistibly haunting.
Come O Winter,
relinquish your malice over warm touch.
Once and forever.
There is no reason to it.


– Shashank Bhardwaj

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creative-writing, Fiction & Poetry, fiction and poetry, Poems, Poetry

Oblivion

The sleep drowns us,
but not our desires.
In a gist of cold air,
we hide our warmth teasing each other.
My hands trace your bare back,
I hear your subtle moans, that
travel from the waist and chin
kissing your warm breath.
I trace every curve, every tip,
every flesh warm enough for my hands.

I cup your breasts, caress them, lick their desires stirring them to a brewed memory,
The clothes slowly shed themselves to the floor.
I feel my hands tracing my chest,
My nails piercing your navel and going way below between your legs,
We won’t stop for we are unaware,
of where would we stop,
or how to,
or simply why.

You drag me into an oblivion
of warm madness.

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beauty, Desire, Fiction & Poetry, Life, Love, Poems, Poetry

An Echo

Sound and Light aren’t different entirely,
nobody shall ever get used to distance.
I wait for your sound, without touching your face,
you become an echo, the reverberation: simply unbearing

I devour an apple, graciously,
of the orchards blooming softly,
extinguished they shall be,
for the valley of snow, bows to no heart.
our pulses prisoned to thoughts.

In a mountain somewhere where cold spares no one,
It’s all dew and despair,
the hands who pick these apples,
have read no verse for equality
it’s a serpent without colour, that teases
our thoughts to an unfulfilling macabre.

how soon we have evolved to non-existence,
of the dream of the fellow
on the cost of furlough of subsidiary resilience.

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beauty, creative-writing, fiction and poetry, Life, Love, Poems, Poetry

The Exalted Pursuits

To define an exit,
is to summon a purpose,
I defined snow, without touching it.
It has never left me since.

In the dreams,
under the sky robbed of stars,
in this utter disturbance of existence.
I wished you never painted me as a mosaic,
as well as I do.

My hands coloring with hues of autumn, winter
and unkissed summer,
because to fail you shall be the end of my potrait.
the symmetry in love is astounding.

Thousand touches on those brown eyes still unfelt
shall yield their numbness:
an art before departure,
a history before invasion.
a cause without a purpose.

This winter ends today
the glass panes conjure a colorful silence :
yellow, a touch of comfort,
when it travels back,
this premonition of forgetfulness
shall shine on you.

Lay these eyelids on purpose, today, at least
What is to be lost? Than a fickle dream
and city made of failed purposes
with us as the lone survivors,
building cities as we forget,
what is like to be loved,
without words.

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