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
A sky sculpted of silence,
At behest of a voiceless cry,
Somebody awaits my hymns again.
My tongue swirls itself :
A snake bathing in the burning blood.
The same nightmare again,
Where my veins smell of dead flowers.
The eyes turn into a vehement dark pond.
A feast of wingless ravens, slowly eating themselves to death :
My heart wasn’t that useful anyways.
Come close today , Stay.
Taste this macabre of my lips.
© Shashank Bhardwaj
I wanted to be real,
To be a rain in winters,
Whom they cannot despise,
love or forget,
to be a chaotic origin of resentment,
mysterious, magical and everything in between
and beyond.
I was a tofu once,
my liver poisoned by
daily savouring of pure alcohol of dreams,
It didn’t kill me then,
It didn’t kill me now.
Bring your hands and choke
the light within me,
Turn me into a grass spilled with fresh soaked blood,
turn me into a a galaxy of restlessness
with kisses of pause and serenity eloping madness.
I shall write all about it.
Till your eyes melt in dreams of forgetting me,
Again and again,
every night
You poor, dreamer of death.
Every drift
Is a cartilage bearing
the sins of a unbearable capillary
The sentences of no remorse
comes in forms.
A wild stag robbed of its skin,
over a snow that even melts eyeballs,
tells me of a impatient mind.
Broken chateau glasses in season of fall
with no stains of warm blood over floor,
tells of wrath, that puked out of a heart dying of collapsing walls of insecurity
A man observing both, in vortex of time
Is stuck as a blob of ice feeling,
not knowing when to melt and when to burn.
A peace he cannot drink or spit
But bear with his actions.
© Shashank
I bred dreams
without copulation
and with a beserked reality.
The lights were just curtains
made of almonds, grass and rain.
I was still a myth,
a flesh tombstoned alive,
in a forest with no surreal taste for fire.
I counted the pigeons who flew without purpose,
I wasn’t righteous, I wasn’t maniacal
I was being fair
and that blows everybody’s mind.
I kissed my heart in a flood of fire,
It’s ashes still warm, still fire.
You don’t the live you get,
You inherit it from stars who can’t speak
and hence they say, destiny is blind
for my arms still live in a river of scorned ashes
Unable to see, with eyes dazzled with unending fire.
– Shashank Bhardwaj
This Dusk, with its violet lips
slithers in from the windows
It rescues my reclused face
with a knife made up of light
and cold bones:
The eyes are dissolved
in a jar of warm red blood.
to cleanse any memory
of unwanted colours.
I remember when you left, that afternoon
like a rainbow disappears in the untouched mist.
I have been filleting that image
with my nails, now worn out.
But all I get is the taste of bitter gold,
over my tongue and dreams of red autumn
in my sleep.
© Shashank Bhardwaj
I lie beside the red tree,
the sky is an estuary of the cold
blue winds and warm fire poured out in sky.
The song of this earth is a song of color,
Devoured and abandoned by the wrath of sea.
A sword cleaves the belly of the sky
To pour light in my pupils, too drowned by an evening on fire.
There deserts mourns for wetness of my tongue,
its sand wobble like a flightless bird, to feel the sweat tickle my back.
I become an earth,
In a pause, they call as sleep.
The oceans wrap my hands
In a glove of salt water,
and whispers me
to write with eyes closed.
While its still time.
While it still matters.
© Shashank Bhardwaj
Writings to Heaven 